


Eat Pray Stab

by bideru



Series: Stormwind Secret Archives [1]
Category: World of Warcraft
Genre: F/M, Sharing a Bed, and she's usually right, anyone else ever think about the relationship between Valeera and Mathias? because i do, battle of dazar'alor aftermath, camping is very sexy, comfort but make it sexy, cupcake boi anduin, descriptions of violence, everyone is an anduin stan, fuck genn all my homies hate genn, i don't even like varian why did he end up so cute, mostly violence towards wrathion, not talking about feelings because then they're not real, oops it's child abuse, shaw is a bro, shaw is an asshole but also a good guy, slavery and gladiator games, that bitch katrana prestor, umbric has some feelings about how the alliance uses him, valeera and the idiot squad, valeera thinks she's the only brain cell in the room, vanshaw if you squint, varian's anger issues, varian's fucked up past, various Uncrowned npcs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-25
Updated: 2020-11-04
Packaged: 2021-03-08 22:55:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 37,901
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27184129
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bideru/pseuds/bideru
Summary: Or, A Begrudging Tolerance For Imbecility.If there was one thing growing up during the Scourge has taught Valeera, it's not to get attached. But she isn't very good at following her own rules, and despite her best attempts, four men worm their way into her heart.
Relationships: Valeera Sanguinar & Anduin Wrynn, Valeera Sanguinar & Mathias Shaw, Valeera Sanguinar/Umbric, Valeera Sanguinar/Varian Wrynn, Wrathion/Anduin Wrynn, implied Flynn Fairwind/Mathias Shaw
Series: Stormwind Secret Archives [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1984304
Comments: 52
Kudos: 41





	1. Lo'Gosh

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Valeera meets a man with no memories during her time in the Crimson Ring.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _This isn't Silvermoon!_ , I hear you cry. To which I say: I mean, it's got elves. ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯

Valeera had learned as a small child not to become attached. Not to toys, or clothes, which would be outgrown and cast aside or ruined. And certainly not to people. People left. People didn’t care about little girls crying in their homes as trolls ransacked their villages. They didn’t care about small children huddled in the shadow of dead hawkstriders, watching with wide, fearful eyes as bandits murdered their loved ones. And they certainly did not care about frightened children when running from hordes of the undead. 

Her father hadn’t cared, of that much she was certain. When the bandits killed her mother and brothers, he had merely patted her awkwardly on the head, and said not a word to her after. When she was stealing to survive, pickpocketing nobles and tradesmen on an empty belly, her father was in Silvermoon, and then he disappeared. Valeera didn’t know where he’d gone. The last she’d heard, he’d died in Outland in service to the prince. It didn’t matter. He’d never been concerned about her anyway.

Perhaps that was how she’d ended up in the Crimson Ring. Good little girls, girls whose fathers loved them and cared for them, didn’t stow away on ships, small enough to squeeze into half empty crates in the hold. Good little girls did not steal from vindictive orcs, were not beaten bloody and thrown into jail cells in the hot Durotar desert. Good little girls did not fight men, did not fight at all. 

“If you don’t eat that, I will,” said Broll. The human he was addressing, curled in one corner and ignoring them both, grunted. The night elf took that as an affirmation, and held the confiscated bowl out in her direction. “You want some?”

Valeera shook her head. “I’m fine.” The food served to them in the Crimson Ring wasn’t  _ good _ by any means, but it was filling and that was better than she’d expected. Broll Bearmantle, possessed as he was by the spirit of the bear, also possessed an enormous appetite, and had more than once gotten himself into fights in the canteen over the last scraps. 

She didn’t know where he’d come by the antlers though. Bears didn’t have antlers.

She supposed they were different from the other gladiators in the Ring. Gladiatorial games were not exactly a voluntary activity, and yet she had agreed to be purchased by Rehgar Earthfury and fight in his stupid games. The alternative had been languishing in an orcish jail cell, and possibly dying from dehydration. Rehgar fed her and gave her medical attention when she needed it, and that was more than anyone else had ever done. She didn’t trust him, of course ﹣ she was, after all, only a thing to him, to be used and abused at his pleasure until finally someone bashed her skull in. But he didn’t come to her quarters as she’d heard happened to other female gladiators. Rehgar had been a gladiator himself, once upon a time. He knew what it was like, and he treated them well. 

The loss of Bloodeye had hit them hard, and no matter the prize Rehgar insisted he saw in his new human acquisition, Valeera knew he was only seeking to fill the hole left by the old orc. She understood that. Murdering the bitch who’d killed Bloodeye had sated her own bloodlust, but perhaps orcs were different in that regard. Maybe they channeled their grief into different outlets. Rehgar sure seemed to. He’d poured a lot of coin into the new human man, boasting to other trainers of his “Croc Bait” and his skill with sword and pike. The man had been bloodied not a few days ago, and Valeera heard whispers of his prowess in the ring. 

The orcs were calling him Lo’Gosh, the Ghost Wolf. 

Valeera knew she was different from Lo’Gosh. Really, she did. She had agreed to her slavery, same as Broll. But where with Broll she found companionship and ease in his dry, self-deprecating wit and intense self-loathing, where she was comfortable enough to rib him after a bad fight or just because she was in a bad mood, Lo’Gosh was… different. He didn’t remember anything from before Rehgar had bought him, and Valeera didn’t think it was the same as Broll’s so-called memory loss. People like Broll, who sold  _ themselves _ into the ring, didn’t  _ want _ to remember their old lives. Valeera didn’t think Lo’Gosh  _ could. _

It stirred in her a sort of protectiveness, a need to keep him safe.

“He’s lying, Val,” Broll said one night. “All of us are liars.” He crunched loudly around a prickly pear, juice running down his chin. He’d shaved again ﹣ beards were a liability in the ring ﹣ and flecks of pear flesh caught on the stubble. “Just leave him be. He doesn’t have to talk about it.” 

That was the unspoken rule among gladiators. Don’t ask about life stories. Valeera rarely felt the urge. Bloodeye and Rehgar would sometimes, and occasionally it was even out of concern. She remembered a fight, long ago, where Broll had refused to participate, had for once dug in his heels and defied Rehgar’s order. One of their opponents had looked like his daughter, she later learned, and the girl’s death at Bloodeye’s hands had sent him into a spiral. Rehgar had benched him for some time after, furious and ashamed. The orc had always considered himself better than the other trainers, did not play psychological war games with his slaves or endanger them more than was strictly necessary. He’d been upset to learn he’d asked Broll to fight to the death a lookalike of his own dead daughter.

But Lo’Gosh was  _ different. _ There seemed to be almost a block on his memories, and huddled in their quarters at night, Valeera’s delicate ears would sometimes pick up his tossing and turning, his muttered, “Stupid,  _ stupid. _ Why don’t I know that?” He hadn’t even had a name until Rehgar had bought him. Before he was Lo’Gosh, Rehgar’s “Croc Bait” was the only name he’d known. 

Broll was snoring. The man could sleep through a typhoon, didn’t hear Lo’Gosh’s whimpers and quiet curses. It had concerned her once, the possibility that another gladiator could sneak in and murder them, another revenge killing for the murder of a mate like Bloodeye, and Broll would never even hear them coming. Rehgar locked them in at night but it did little to soothe Valeera’s nerves. Gladiators were often criminals and thieves, and she wasn’t the only one who could pick locks. She thought she’d slept less during her time in the Crimson Ring than she had in her entire life. 

Sighing, Valeera threw back the covers. Their accommodations weren’t always great, and more often than not they found themselves sleeping on a hard stone floor, but Rehgar always made sure they at least had a blanket. She crept across the room, silent as a shadow. In the darkness she saw Broll, face down on the floor and head pillowed in his arms, and his mouth wide open. He gave a snort and twitched in his sleep, and then fell silent. A moment later the snoring started anew. 

But Lo’Gosh was not asleep. Tonight like nearly every night, Lo’Gosh lay on his back and stared up at the ceiling. They had one tonight, thick stone slabs like the rest of the Maul that muffled the noises outside. Unlike most nights, Broll’s was the only snoring that filled the room. 

“Can’t sleep?”

Lo’Gosh jumped. “Shit, make some noise next time!” he snapped. And then, quickly, “Sorry, I shouldn’t﹣”

“I won’t faint if you curse in front of me,” Valeera muttered, with a roll of her eyes. “Fuck, you know how much I curse.” He must have been a mama’s boy, to have manners like that. In her experience, mama’s boys wouldn’t swear before a woman. 

“Sorry,” Lo’Gosh said again. 

“It’s fine.” 

She swatted at him a little impatiently, lifting up the corner of his blanket. “Scoot over.”

“What?”

“Scoot over,” she said again, and he did, allowing her to bed down next to him and rearrange the blanket over top. “You’ll sleep better this way.” It was an old gladiator trick, one she’d learned however reluctantly from Broll and Bloodeye. After a few scuffles and a black eye on both sides, she did eventually understand what they were trying to do. They didn’t touch her, not like that, merely curled protectively around her on her worst nights, when the Scourge and the bandits invaded her dreams, and the gentle rise of fall of their chests, Broll’s snoring and Bloodeye’s deep, even breaths lulled her back to sleep. She missed Bloodeye. Even when he’d bought his freedom, he bunked with them in the gladiators’ quarters.

“Come here.” She wasn’t sleeping much tonight anyway. The almost soundproof walls gave her anxiety, and between them and Broll’s snoring ﹣ and the anger of last night’s team after they’d killed their captain ﹣ she had more than a healthy dose of paranoia. Lo’Gosh allowed her to push him onto his side and curl up against his back, as Bloodeye had once done for her. Confusion painted his face as she draped an arm over the soft skin of his vulnerable stomach. She wondered vaguely if he’d ever shared a bed with a woman at all. 

“Go to sleep,” she ordered. “Just… close your eyes and empty your mind. It gets easier.” 

She thought, after a long while, that maybe he finally had. His breathing had slowed, and the fluttering heartbeat she felt under his skin finally calmed. This close, he smelled like sweat and musk and the clean, fresh Feralas air they’d been out in that afternoon. It was different than Bloodeye, who often carried with him the metallic scent of blood even after a bath, or Broll who inexplicably sometimes smelled like wet animal. It was nice. 

“Valeera.” If she hadn’t been so paranoid, ears twitching at every sound, she wouldn’t have heard him at all. 

“Hmm.”

“Do you remember who you were? Before you came here?”

And wasn’t that a loaded question. Valeera had been a lot of things ﹣ a nobleman’s daughter. An unwanted child. The sole survivor of a bandit attack. An orphan. A thief. None of them were particularly endearing people, none of them held memories she especially wanted. She didn’t think he was really asking about her, though. 

“Yes.” She pulled him closer, his hair tickling her nose. “I’m a different person now, but… yes, I do.” 

The answer seemed to frustrate him, and he huffed. “I… I don’t. Remember.” He inhaled again, noisily. “I don’t remember anything.” 

She rubbed a small circle over the skin of his bare stomach. She hoped it would keep him here in the present, not… wherever he was trying to go. Bloodeye had often done the same for her, when her nightmares were bad. “I know.” 

“Is that normal?”

“Well.” And she allowed herself a little grin. “Perhaps if you’ve been hit too many times in the head.” 

He was quiet, and she feared her joke didn’t land. And then, “Is that why Broll’s like that?” The smallest hint of amusement. She laughed quietly.

“Broll wasn’t all there to begin with.” And from somewhere behind them, Broll let out a loud grunt, as if objecting to the way they slighted him while he was unconscious and unable to defend himself. Valeera kept up her circles, and Lo’Gosh relaxed again under her touch. 

“I know he makes it difficult,” she said wryly, “but try to sleep. This gladiator shit is no fun if you pass out.” 

And after several long moments, he finally did. His breathing evened out, and the tenseness bled from his muscles. Valeera closed her eyes and attempted to get some sleep herself.

* * *

It didn’t surprise her when she started sleeping with Lo’Gosh. Sleeping together, in pairs or as a trio, was a gesture of trust, and who could you trust in the gladiators’ ring if not your own teammates? It didn’t surprise her when they started having sex either. Such close quarters often brought urges and needs to the forefront, and it wasn’t as if she hadn’t slept with bedmates before. But this, as with all things Lo’Gosh, was different. Felt different. She didn’t know when she’d started  _ caring _ for the man, as more than a teammate, and that did surprise her. 

“Ugh.” Broll rolled his eyes at the sight of them, naked in Lo’Gosh’s bed. He was an early riser and he’d woken up first. “Seriously?”

“Shut up.” And Valeera was suddenly furious. Not at Lo’Gosh, still sound asleep beside her, or even at Broll. No, she was furious with herself, because it wasn’t just a friendly gesture anymore, sharing a bed. It wasn’t just looking out for a teammate, when she inspected his wounds after a fight. It wasn’t just sex. 

She’d grown attached to this man with no memories, who whimpered in his dreams and felt more guilt than pride at his kills. She cared about this man who touched her like she was something precious, who defended her in the ring and saved the last piece of fruit for her at meals. She wasn’t supposed to care about anyone anymore. 

“Shut up,” she said again, throwing off the blanket and yanking on her discarded clothes. 

“I hope this doesn’t become a thing,” Broll groused, stretching. “Don’t tauren do that or something? Sex isn’t just fucking with them﹣”

She smacked him with her boot. “Not another word.” 

“I mean, I won’t tell Rehgar if you don’t﹣”

“I hate you.” 

His teasing didn’t extend beyond that morning, though sometimes he would huff and complain if he saw them in bed together, and no one else mentioned it. No one else knew. During the day, they were always on their guard, even in their locked little room. Other gladiators were always on the lookout for weaknesses in their opponents ﹣ and everyone was an opponent, eventually ﹣ and trainers were eager to root out secrets and vulnerabilities. It made for an entertaining match. But nights… Nights were just for them. At night they would lay in each other’s arms, legs tangled together. At night they could relax. Lo’Gosh was gentle with her, treating her with a care Valeera didn’t think she deserved, even when she insisted on rough and fast. Lo’Gosh was mindful of the injuries she sustained in the ring, and didn’t hurt her unless she asked. Valeera had met a lot of humans, but Lo’Gosh was different. 

She lay awake now, on her back facing the ceiling as Lo’Gosh sometimes did. He was curled against her, she a pillow and a space heater both in the cool desert air. An arm encircled him, as it had all those months ago, and a frown pressed between her brows. Broll had finally been convinced to induce a vision on him, finally grown tired of repeated chantings of “the past is the past” and “let the man be.” What Lo’Gosh had told them had been disturbing. He’d seen a woman with child and a burning city, an older man wearing the lion's head belt he’d earlier discarded on the floor and calling him “lad.” A little boy standing beside a coffin, and himself in crown and plate. 

Valeera stroked her lover’s side, the thoughts mulling about in her brain. Whoever Lo’Gosh had been before joining them in the Crimson Ring seemed to be terribly important, both to himself and maybe the wider world. How had he come here? Why did he have no memories? She suspected some sort of foul play ﹣ though she admitted, honestly, that that was probably her own paranoia talking. But. Her own homeland, though seemingly a catastrophic series of unfortunate events, had in reality been a carefully orchestrated plot the likes of which had never before been conceived in all the history of Quel’Thalas. Perhaps Lo’Gosh’s own mysterious misfortune wasn’t so farfetched. 

Lo’Gosh mumbled in his sleep, incoherent against her skin, and she soothed him with a gentle hand in his hair. She wondered, staring at the cracked ceiling, who exactly Lo’Gosh had been, and if there was any way to help him remember. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I tried to make as few changes to canon as possible, but some things were inevitable due to my shaky grasp of anything Varian (in my defense, have you read about him? that's some confusing shit right there) and the fact that I'm not trying to write another Enough epic here. I've always felt Valeera, despite oddly identifying as a blood elf (and all the history and name-calling and betrayal that entails), stayed with Varian and pledged herself to the Wrynns (NOT Stormwind or the Alliance) because of a relationship (not necessarily romantic) she cultivated with him starting back when they were both gladiators.


	2. Varian

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Valeera makes a pledge to Varian.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is not a linear story, and sometimes we jump around. Just know that in this chapter we are always jumping forward.

Of course Lo’Gosh was King Varian of Stormwind. As if he could have been anyone else. Valeera had never been to Stormwind, or honestly ever met a member of the royal family, but seeing him now, in crown and plate and holding the legendary blade Shalamayne, there was no question. He was not some polite city boy who’d gotten on the wrong side of the law and he never had been. She thought it astonishing she hadn’t realized it before. 

“Stay with me,” Varian had asked over the dead body of his would-be assassin, a black dragon. Valeera yanked the blade from the beast’s neck and wiped the steaming blood on its own scales. 

“Don’t be ridiculous,” she’d told him. “Without me, you’d be dead.” 

“Stay with me,” he’d said again, as they’d gazed at the head of Onyxia mounted on the Stormwind ramparts. 

She rolled her eyes, smacked him lightly on the shoulder. “As if I’d leave you to your dragon-infested court.” 

“Stay with me,” he breathed beneath her, strong hands at her waist, holding her to him as he thrust up in time to the shared beat of their hearts. 

“Always,” she exhaled, her eyes falling closed. And when they were spent and curled together, legs entwined and he growing soft inside her, he kissed her like he had as Lo’Gosh, and Valeera knew she could never leave. He didn’t want another queen and she didn’t want a husband, but what they had ﹣ the bond forged in the dark of Crimson Ring nights ﹣ was something special, sacred. She would not break it, so long as they both lived.

* * *

Mathias Shaw regarded her coolly. He didn’t like her, she knew. She’d heard rumors and eavesdropped, heard the harsh words hissed to the king. 

“She is sin’dorei, your majesty! _Sin’_ dorei, one of those who left the Alliance to fend for themselves during the Scourge!” When he was angry, the thick mustache above his lip would puff, giving him an almost comical effect. “Your majesty, I understand you may have needs, but _you_ must understand﹣”

“Thank you, Master Shaw,” Varian said irritably. It wasn’t the first time the spymaster had voiced his concerns. “I would hope you would trust the word of your king that Valeera is nothing to be worried about.”

Mathias Shaw looked as though he _trusted_ that Varian couldn’t tell an enemy from a fruit cake. He’d had to watch as his king, the other half of Varian, consorted with that bitch Katrana Prestor for months, after all. 

It was fine, Valeera decided. She had explained her reasons to Varian, after his return to the city, and he’d accepted them. Her heritage was her own, he’d told her, and she had never given him reason to doubt her. “Stay with me,” he’d said. “Fuck what everyone else thinks.” She knew what her green eyes said to people, knew the scorn the repatriated high elves held for her. She didn’t especially care. 

“Have you anything else, Master Shaw?” He’d interrupted them, taking lunch in the council room after a morning of endless petition hearings on Varian’s end and some sniffing out of black dragon whelps on hers. _I shall ask Shaw to train you as SI:7,_ he’d said more than once, an idea that had not endeared itself to the spymaster.

That was fine, Valeera decided, eyes discerning the minute details of exasperation on the redhead’s face. She didn’t like Shaw much either. What sort of spymaster would allow his king to be kidnapped and split into two bodies? What sort of master of secrets didn’t know the court he’d sworn to protect was besieged not only by scheming nobles but by the evil _black dragonflight?_

As far as Valeera was concerned, Mathias Shaw was not good at his job, and she’d more than once advocated for his removal. 

“Valeera,” Varian would warn, and she would quiet, scowling. She had a point and she knew it, but for one reason or another, Varian would hear nothing against the man. She’d gone so far as to sniff around herself for proof that Shaw was bad news ﹣ another dragon in disguise, perhaps, or a Defias agent ﹣ but all she’d found was a red bandana in his desk drawer and one very annoyed goblin. 

“No, your majesty,” Shaw said reluctantly. “I’ll leave you to your meal.” He bowed stiffly, and backed out of the room. 

Valeera allowed a few moments of silence before speaking. “You know he wouldn’t be so annoying if you’d just remove﹣”

“Don’t,” Varian said tiredly. “Half my court is in the Stockade because of him. I need him.” 

She huffed. In her opinion, Varian needed Shaw like he needed an arrow to the knee, but that was neither here nor there. Her official capacity was as bodyguard, not advisor, and she knew nothing of politics or nobles like Shaw did. Perhaps he wasn’t incompetent, had merely been bewitched by that bitch Katrana Prestor like all the rest. It was an unsatisfactory conclusion, but Katrana ﹣ _Onyxia_ ﹣ had been a formidable sorceress. Maybe _she_ had just been really good at her job.

“Okay, okay,” she relented, stabbing at her salad with a little more force than necessary. Varian liked to tease her for her “rabbit food,” but she’d eaten few fresh fruits and vegetables growing up, and the castle kitchen had them in abundance. She relished in the sharp crunch and sweet, clear flavors, and pointedly ignored the king gnawing at his steak. 

* * *

“What are you doing?” 

The sight she’d stumbled upon was an interesting one. Varian, shed of his plate and wearing soft lounge pants, was laid out on the couch in his receiving chambers, a frown on his face and a thick book in his lap. At first she thought perhaps it was a book of strategy, maybe _The Art of War,_ by Everard Moon. Varian was not big on reading, but he was known from time to time to peruse such military texts. With the threat of Horde after the disaster that was the Theramore treaty, she wouldn’t be surprised if, after a lot of yelling and cursing and possibly a broken plate, he was calming himself in his off hours by creating vicious scenarios in his head. She was sure at least a dozen of them involved spearing Garrosh Hellscream on a pike. 

But to her surprise, he wasn’t reading _The Art of War,_ or any of the other books she’d seen in the war room. Not even _A Treatise on Strategy,_ copies of which lived in his personal chambers, the war room, and his office. No, as she drew closer, she saw that this book contained fantastical illustrations, which no dry and dusty tome of war could boast. Pinching the cover between her fingers, she peered at the words rendered in gold leaf. _A Melody of Earth and Wind,_ by Gregor L. L. Moltenbottom. 

What in the fuck.

Varian sat up quickly and shoved the book aside, as though embarrassed. A scowl quickly fell into place. “Nothing,” he said defensively. “What are you doing here?” 

Valeera raised an eyebrow. “Isn’t that the book Anduin likes?” she prodded. Unlike his father, Varian’s little boy was a voracious reader. He’d once told Valeera proudly he’d read every book in the castle library, _even the really boring ones._

Varian avoided her gaze. “No.” She giggled.

“You’re allowed to read books, you know,” she teased. “Actual books that tell a proper story. You’re allowed to like them.” 

“I know that!” he hissed, cheeks coloring. Valeera didn’t know why he was so worked up. It was only a book. She shoved him to make room and plopped herself down beside him, pulling the thick tome into her lap. She wasn’t a fan of reading herself, but she did enjoy when Varian’s son told her about the things he’d read. He got very excited, eyes sparkling, even when he didn’t like it. He could talk for hours about writing styles and how even small, stylistic touches could turn a boring narrative into a thrilling one. If he wasn’t a prince, Valeera thought he might grow up to write books of his own. He still could, she reasoned.

For several moments there was nothing but the soft flicking of turned pages as Valeera scanned the pages, not really reading but just _absorbing._ Whoever had illustrated this edition had done beautiful work. 

“Anduin likes it,” Varian muttered after some time, still facing away. Valeera looked up at him, one delicate blonde brow raised.

“Isn’t that what I said?”

A beat. 

“I just.” He huffed. Valeera had learned over the years that that was something he did, when trying to engage in a difficult conversation of a personal nature. She heard it often when he spoke to Anduin. “I just wanted. He doesn’t…” Irritably, he scrubbed a hand along his face and through his hair. “He doesn’t like weapons,” he said lamely. 

“He’s just a child, Varian. Children are like that.” 

And Varian shook his head. “No, I mean. Shi﹣shoot.” (She had to grin: she’d seen him scream at men until he was blue in the face, slinging insults and curses even she blushed to hear. But he still, no matter how frustrated or angry, would not swear at her, or any woman. Even that bitch Onyxia was always _that woman.)_ “We don’t have anything in common,” he said in a rush. “And I’ve tried… but he doesn’t like the things I do.” 

Anduin wouldn’t. People beating the shit out of each other in the Brawler’s Guild was not something she could see him enjoying, nor the endless drills to which Varian subjected himself every day. Anduin was a gentle boy. He liked animals and art and visiting the grave of his mother on Sundays, and even when Valeera had tried to teach him to throw daggers, he’d been good at it but never held much of an interest. 

“He’s just so _enamored_ with that stupid book,” Varian went on. “I just… wanted to see what all the fuss was about.” 

“You want something to bond with him over.”

“Don’t say it like that!” 

“Like what?”

“Like ﹣ all emotional and sh﹣stuff.”

Valeera laughed. “You poor repressed lug,” she said affectionately. “That _is_ emotional though.”

“It is not!”

“I think it’s sweet, and I think Anduin would appreciate it very much.” She fought the urge to tease him, knowing the distance between Varian and his son was something Varian disliked, was ashamed of. But Varian hung his head.

“It’s just not _good_ though, Val!” he moaned. “It doesn’t make any sense! Why does no one take the undead threat seriously? Why are people conspiring to put a mad prince on the throne when they killed his father for being mad? Why are the dragons _pets,_ and why can’t they _talk_ or do magic or _anything?_ Might as well make them house cats, for all they add to the plot!” 

Valeera collapsed into giggles. “It’s _fiction,_ Varian! That means it doesn’t have to follow the rules of the real world.”

“I know what fiction is!”

She couldn’t breathe, she was laughing so hard. “Have you never read a _story_ before?” Anduin could probably have explained it better, using fancy terms like _high fantasy_ and _suspension of disbelief_ and _worldbuilding,_ but Valeera didn’t know either the story or the terms, only that Varian seemed unable to comprehend the concept of fiction. “Just.” She gasped, drawing in a shaky breath. Her stomach hurt. “Just look at the pictures, Varian.”

“They don’t make sense either!”

And she dissolved into giggles again. 

* * *

“Ms Sanguinar. May I have a word?”

Valeera didn’t have to turn to identify the speaker. She would know the soft, clipped tones of Mathias Shaw anywhere. “I suppose.” She did not look away from the shelves she’d been browsing. Varian was determined to power through “that ridiculous” _Earth and Wind_ series, and he’d said there was a second book. She had to admire the effort he was putting forth towards this. Anduin had a soft heart, and Varian had tried and failed to bond over the things he’d bonded with his own father with. Anduin did not hunt, did not enjoy fighting, and had not his father’s volatile temper. Valeera supposed they could have ridden together ﹣ Anduin enjoyed the stables and his horse very much ﹣ but Varian’s destrier was a monster with a worse temper than his rider, and Anduin was afraid of him. (Valeera wasn’t fond of the beast herself, if she were honest.) 

Anduin did have one thing he was passionate about, and that was the Light. He had begged for permission to pursue its study and from what Valeera heard, he was actually very good. The senior priest who served as his teacher said that Anduin had a natural gift and should be allowed to push himself. He often served as an altar boy in the cathedral, and Valeera thought now that if the boy had not been born a prince, perhaps he would have become a cleric. 

Varian, on the other hand, had no patience for religion. His foot jiggled irritably when he was forced to sit through Sunday service, and more often than not he begged off, claiming without reservation, “I have better things to do.” He’d made it through half of one of Anduin’s lessons before stomping off, lip curled in disgust. 

_A Melody of Earth and Wind_ would have to do then.

“Perhaps somewhere more private?”

Valeera spared a glance at the rest of the room. The castle’s library was by no means _private,_ being occupied at any one moment by no less than the custodian, a team of archivists, and Harrison Jones, who was researching for an upcoming expedition. Some dig in Tanaris or something. But the corner in which she found herself with Shaw was quiet enough, given the vastness of the library and the inferiority of human ears. 

“Here will be fine,” she said coolly, running her fingers down the spine of a book that had caught her eye. No, this wasn’t the one. She frowned for a moment. _A Melody of Earth and Wind_ had a gilded cover, she remembered, which meant the spine would be stamped with leaf as well. This book bore the same fine handwriting along its spine as _A Melody of Earth and Wind,_ but its title was written in ink. 

Just how wealthy was this Gregor L. L. Moltenbottom to have commissioned copies illuminated with real gold? Was that something typical writers could afford? Or were these editions anomalies, paid for by the royal treasury for the entertainment of Prince Anduin?

Shaw faced the shelves as well, a facade of unbothered reader searching for his next story. “Ms Sanguinar,” he began, voice so low even she hardly heard it. He was even more paranoid than she was. “I must make something very clear. You are here by leave of His Majesty alone. Sin’dorei are not welcome within the city.”

She didn’t look at him. _Gondor With the Wind_ looked promising, but upon closer inspection bore the name M. R. R. Tolkien and she shelved it. She hadn’t read many books when she was a child in Quel’Thalas, to the chagrin of her tutors, but the few elven authors she recalled all boasted full ﹣ sometimes long and even obnoxious ﹣ names. She didn’t know what the human preoccupation with their initials was, but it made it difficult to parse out one story from the others among the barely differentiated jumble of the same twenty-six letters. “I’m aware.” 

“I’m not entirely sure of your… _designs_ on the king, but I can assure you, Ms. Sanguinar, they will fall short. Stormwind will never accept a sin’dorei queen, and His Majesty swore on his late wife’s grave he would never remarry.”

Valeera nearly laughed out loud. Shaw thought she wanted to _marry_ Varian? Oh that was hysterical. As if she ever wanted to be in his position, trussed up before the masses and held accountable for the lives of millions. She’d had enough of that when she’d been a nobleman’s daughter. 

And, if they married, Valeera would be expected to _produce heirs._ The thought made her skin crawl. 

“I can assure _you,_ Master Shaw,” she murmured, resuming her search, “I have no desire to be Queen of Stormwind.”

She saw out of the corner of her eye Shaw’s eyebrows rise into his hairline. He clearly didn’t believe her, and well. What kind of spymaster would he be, if he believed the first thing he heard? 

“Then, may I ask, what _are_ your intentions with the king?” She supposed after the fiasco that had been the Prestors, these were things he had to ask. She doubted he was doing it on Varian’s orders. Varian knew could ask her himself, if he cared to, and that she would not lie to him.

“You may not.” Ah, _there_ was Moltenbottom. A collection of novels, massive and all with letters in twirling gold leaf down their spines, sat before her, just below her eye level. _A Battle of Sovereigns_ stood next to _A Gale of Glaives,_ followed by _Banquet for Vultures_ and then the massive _Dances with Dragons._ A smile tugged at the corners of her mouth at what Varian would think of that last one. 

Were they all part of this series? Had Varian really sentenced himself to the reading of several _thousand_ pages of a story he didn’t even like, all for the sake of bonding with his son? 

“You serve Stormwind, Master Shaw,” she murmured, pulling first one volume and then another from the shelf. Fuck, books were heavy. Who was it that decided paper and ink could be so fucking heavy? “Perhaps not well﹣” (and here he bristled) “﹣but your loyalty is to the city and the Alliance. Mine is to the king. I don’t expect you to understand that.” 

What would a pampered city boy, with his posh Stormwindian accent and ramrod straight spine, know of the bonds forged in the Crimson Ring? She and Varian were bound to each other in blood and sweat and tears. She didn’t expect lordly little _Master_ Shaw to understand. He killed people for a living, but not for his life. Not for the chance to see another day. He wouldn’t understand what she and Varian had gone through in the Ring. 

“Has Anduin read these?” The thought struck her suddenly. What if she spirited these books away before Anduin had a chance to get his hands on them? What if they sat waiting in Varian’s private chambers for months (or years ﹣ she had not illusions as to Varian’s speed in reading) and Anduin never even knew they existed?

Shaw looked confused. “What?”

“This ridiculous…” She hefted the books higher in her arms. The stack reached from her stomach to her chin. “This series. Anduin likes it. Has he read them all?” Valeera didn’t think Shaw would really know ﹣ the prince’s choice of reading material wasn’t exactly a matter of national security. But aside from asking Anduin himself, Shaw might be the only one who did. 

Or the librarian. Where had that man got off to?

Shaw’s ginger brows came together between his eyes. The abrupt change in conversation didn’t seem to be one he had foreseen. “I… I don’t know.” 

Useless. “Go find the librarian,” she told him. “I’d like him to at least have a chance to read them before Varian squirrels them away.”

The frown deepened. “Var ﹣ His Majesty?”

And she supposed she couldn’t fault the man for not knowing _that._ Varian hadn’t even wanted to tell her. “Varian knows Anduin likes these books,” she explained. “I’m sure you’ve noticed they don’t exactly see eye to eye on much.” 

Understanding broke out on the other man’s face. “No,” he said softly, his gaze falling to the stack of books in her arms. “No, they don’t.” 

If Shaw was the joking type, she would have expected one there. But he wasn’t. Instead, he held out his hand and took _Dances with Dragons_ from her. “This one was only published recently,” he told her. “I remember His Highness asking for a book about dragons.” He studied the cover, a beautiful hand-painted image of a battle between a black and a bronze dragon. He chuckled, distracted for the moment from Valeera’s imaginary plots towards the king. “I didn’t expect he meant a _story.”_

“With what he’s been through, I’m surprised he wants to read about dragons at all. Even fictional ones.” 

Shaw shrugged. “His Highness has always been very resilient.” Affection colored his otherwise indifference. “Despite his dealings with the black dragonflight, I don’t expect he’ll carry any long term scars.” 

“That’s surprisingly optimistic, coming from you.” 

“His Highness has that effect on people.” He held up the book. “I’ll see that this makes its way to Prince Anduin.” 

“Don’t tell him,” Valeera said quickly. “I don’t think Varian wants him to know, in case… In case he can’t do it.” _In case Varian disappoints him again._

The spymaster held her gaze for a long moment before nodding. “Of course.” And then the mask fell back into place, all the earlier softness smudged away. But the disdain he usually held for her seemed to have eased as well. She supposed they all had a soft spot when it came to Anduin. 

Hugging the books to her chest, Valeera left the library.

* * *

Valeera didn’t like King Genn Greymane. She didn’t like most people. But neither did Varian, and that was surprising. Varian liked people. 

“I will not have fair weather friends in my Alliance!” he howled, slamming his fist on the table. 

“Yer not the only one in this Alliance,” Magni Bronzebeard pointed out. “Aye, Genn has made some questionable decisions in the past, but he owned up to them. A return to the fold is exactly what we need against the Horde.”

“Our navy is better than the Horde's,” Malfurion started. 

_“Stormwind’s_ navy,” Varian said hotly.

Malfurion did not rise to the bait. “With Gilneas at our side, our naval power would increase tenfold, wiping out the Horde strongholds in the South Seas and adding much needed cover to your own ships.”

“Until Greymane decides the going’s too rough,” Varian spat. “He couldn’t face the orcs before. Why should we believe now is any different?”

“I was younger,” Greymane admitted, “and stretched thin with problems on the home front.”

“So were the gnomes! Oh, I forgot,” Varian sneered. “You don’t know about that. You’d already hidden behind your wall.” He clenched his fist. “When Gnomeregan was overrun with troggs and radiation poisoning, they still sent soldiers. While the gnomes experienced the genocide of their own people, on _their_ home front, Mekkatorque still saw fit to send us engineers and tinkerers.” He’d criticized the numbers at the time, accused Gelbin of not stepping into the pool with both feet, but he understood afterwards. Perhaps if Gelbin had sent them _less,_ they could have overcome Thermaplugg and reclaimed their city, but he hadn’t. His allegiance to their Alliance had meant too much to risk. 

“I wouldn’t necessarily compare my situation with Genn’s,” Gelbin said hesitantly. “We were fortunate enough to have our allies in Ironforge at our backs. Gilneas is surrounded by﹣”

 _“Was._ Gilneas _was_ surrounded. It doesn’t exist anymore.”

“Which is why I’m asking﹣”

“You come asking for aid while bringing nothing to the table!”

Tyrande frowned. “I believe we’ve already discussed the advantages of Gilnean readmittance.” And Velen cleared his throat, softly and almost unheard in the din.

“When the draenei came _bringing nothing,”_ he murmured, “the Alliance saw value in our numbers and skills. The Myst Isles are not our home and we could not pledge them to your cause, but we brought with us healers and shamans and adaptability. The Alliance extended to us protection in exchange for those skills.”

Magni nodded. “Ye said yerself it was a good trade,” he told Varian. “The Gilneans may not have a home or a navy, yer right. But they have _sailors_ who need work, and the power of the worgen ain’t such a curse as ye may think. Have ye seen them fight, son?”

Varian scowled. “I will _not_ vote yes on their readmittance.”

“Enough votes and ye won’t have to.” 

Varian respected Magni, and from her place in the shadows, Valeera thought that if he respected the dwarf less, he might have punched him. As it were, the High King merely pounded his fist on the table again and stormed from the room.

  
  


She didn’t know what she expected when she let herself into Varian’s private rooms that night, but it wasn’t finding him in the middle of an argument with Anduin.

“You’re not listening!” Anduin pleaded. “You never listen!”

“I will not allow that man to steal you away!” Varian thundered.

“I _asked_ to go﹣”

“What’s wrong with Stormwind? There are priests there!”

“Velen isn’t like those priests, Father. He’s…” Anduin was not always the best with words, and Varian made him less so. “I need to learn from him.” 

Varian scoffed. “If it’s power you want, you can learn from Archbishop Benedictus.” The archbishop headed the church in Stormwind, and had always expressed a keen interest in the young prince. 

“I don’t want﹣! You’re not _listening!”_

Valeera didn’t know if she should intervene. Varian was already angry from the discussion about Greymane and Gilneas. He was bullheaded enough without that. 

“The high priest said I should listen to the Light,” Anduin tried. “And the Light is telling me I _need_ to study under Prophet Velen.” 

Varian rolled his eyes. “He’s not a fucking prophet.”

Valeera saw Anduin deflate. Varian didn’t like to swear in front of his son, and once he started, the conversation had reached its end, at least in Varian’s eyes. “Forget it,” he muttered. “I hoped you’d understand.” 

“I don’t understand why you can’t study in Stomwind.”

“Velen isn’t in Stormwind.” He sighed. “I want to study with Velen, at the Exodar. I’m leaving with him after the summit. Please, just… Think about it. And we can talk again in the morning.” He turned to go.

“Anduin!” Varian’s eyes flashed. In a panic his hand shot out, wrapped around his son’s arm. “You don’t decide when this discussion is over.”

“Ow!” Anduin’s face contorted in pain as Varian wrenched him back from the doorway. 

“I am the parent!” Varian thundered. “You are the child! You do as I say and you will return home with me!”

Anduin’s face had gone white. At the rate he was going, the king was going to yank the boy's arm from its socket. Valeera stepped forward in alarm. “Varian﹣”

“Let me go!” With his other hand, the boy tried to pry his father’s hand from his arm. “You’re _hurting_ me!” 

As soon as the fury had come it was gone, and with a stricken look Varian let go. “Anduin﹣”

But Anduin wasn’t listening. Holding his injured arm, he fled, muttering a faint “sorry” as he crashed into Valeera on the way out. Varian stared where he had been, eyes glassy. 

“Anduin…”

Valeera had entered the room filled with jokes and good-natured ribbing about Varian’s lost temper against Genn. Perhaps they could have salvaged the situation, if Varian didn’t look as though he’d just had his heart torn out. 

_“Fuck!”_ With a guttural growl he sank to the couch and buried his face in his hands. 

“Varian…” She was at his side in an instant, tried to pull him into her arms. All thoughts of embarrassment fled as the weight of what he’d done fully hit, and he didn’t resist. For all his bluster and rage, deep down Varian had a soft heart too, and Anduin had claimed it all. 

“What is _wrong_ with me?” he gasped. He was shaking, just like he’d done when he was Lo’Gosh after he’d killed an opponent. He was a great warrior but he had never liked causing pain. “What have I _done?”_

“It was an accident,” Valeera said firmly, rubbing circles against his back. “You didn’t mean to. You forget your own strength.”

“I _hurt_ him, Val,” Varian moaned. “I was angry and I hurt him” 

“He knows you didn’t mean it.”

“Does he?” And he slumped against her, breathing noisily. “You should leave.”

She looked down at him. “What?”

“I’m just going to hurt you too.”

“Varian.” She tried to pry his hands from his face but he wouldn’t let her. “Varian, you won’t hurt me. You have never hurt me.”

He huffed. “I hurt you all the time.”

“When?” He resisted her attempts to uncover his face again. “When we fuck? That doesn’t count, silly. I ask for that.” After a particularly rough night, sometimes Varian would become morose, would trace the outline of the bruises he’d caused sadly, and it would always take several minutes before she could convince him she was fine, and she’d enjoyed it, and she knew he would never truly want to cause her pain. He’d always accepted that she was telling the truth, knew she’d never lied to him before. She didn’t understand how something he always enjoyed in the moment could cause him such distress afterward. 

Varian said nothing, and she continued with her circles down his spine. It used to relax him, when they were still in the Ring, and she knew it still did. Had done it more than once after a difficult day, when he was so worked up he couldn’t see straight. 

“Hey,” she murmured. “Stay with me. Don’t get stuck in your head.” 

But he couldn’t listen. “Just go,” he said mournfully, pulling away. “I can’t hurt you too.”

“You won’t.”

“Please.” 

“Varian﹣”

 _“Please,_ Valeera. Go.” 

And against her better judgement, she did. She thought he would calm more easily without having to worry about her. “I’ll be close,” she told him. “Just holler if you need.”

He said nothing, and as she closed the door between them, there came the shatter of glass.

  
  
  


Anduin left with Velen at the conclusion of the summit. Greymane and Gilneas had been voted into the Alliance, Varian’s attitude having changed significantly after an outing with the other man and Malfurion. Valeera didn’t pry. If Varian had wanted her to know what had happened, he’d have told her. The two kings still weren’t friends, mind, but they were friendlier. It was a good first step. 

She stood to the side of the older king and watched as Varian bid his son goodbye. His massive form enveloped Anduin in a hug so tender she had to look away. 

“Take care of yourself,” she heard her king whisper, petting through the boy’s hair. 

“I will.” Anduin had become wary after their argument, and hid the large bruise his father had caused with long sleeves, but there was no tenseness in his body as he stood in his father’s arms. Perhaps Varian’s horror at what he’d done, the careful, mindful way in which he’d interacted with Anduin since, reassured him that Varian hurting him had truly been an accident. That his father was truly sorry for the pain he had caused, and would take great measures to ensure it never happened again. 

“What did you do?” Valeera asked the old worgen. 

“Pardon?” Like Shaw, Greymane didn’t think much of her either, didn’t like interacting with her if he could help it. 

She gestured with her chin in the family’s direction, as Varian let his arms fall to his sides and did not tense as Velen placed a hand on the boy’s shoulder. “Them. What did you do?”

Greymane frowned. “I didn’t do anything.” 

Valeera didn’t know if she believed that. The Varian from a few days ago would not have stood idly by as the old draenei boarded his ship, deep in conversation with the young prince. But Greymane didn’t elaborate and she didn’t ask him to, and eventually the man wandered away to speak to Tyrande and Malfurion. 

“Stay with me,” Varian murmured, as she joined him on the dock. The gangplank had been brought up; the draenei were getting ready to disembark. She was reminded briefly of a time several years ago, standing on the bow of a ship beside Lo’Gosh and Broll, the human staring out into the harbor of a city he barely remembered. _“Stay with me,”_ he’d said then, covering her hand with his own. 

He didn’t do that now. He stood with his arms folded tightly over his chest, an unreadable expression on his face. She thought perhaps if he unwrapped them, he’d unravel completely. “Stay with me.” 

“I’ll never leave.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _A Melody of Earth and Wind,_ by Gregor L. L. Moltenbottom comes from [These Small Hours](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27136600/chapters/66268333) by Liquid Lobotomy. The other books in the series are mine though. It's a really good Fairshaw fic.
> 
> Everard Moon, author of this universe's _The Art of War_ , comes from the name of the irl book's first English translator, and a parody of its author Sun Tze's name. _Gondor With the Wind_ is also a parody title, and the author's initials come from the author of Gone With the Wind and JRR Tolkien both.


	3. Anduin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Valeera would die for Anduin. She would kill for him too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The first scene takes place after Varian's death, as does the last. All the others are the in between.

Valeera Sanguinar never wanted to be a mother. She had never liked children, never wanted them, and the thought of being pregnant ﹣ of another being _inside_ her ﹣ gave her anxiety. Other women could do what they wanted as long as they kept their screaming, snotting, horrible little beasts far away from her, but Valeera wanted no part of child-rearing. Varian had asked her once, and only once, and they both agreed the idea was not a good one, even laughable. But Anduin was different. Just as Lo’Gosh had been different, so was his son. 

Valeera had never tried to _mother_ the boy. She wasn’t his mother and didn’t want to be, and it wasn’t her place to intrude on the delicate relationship between father and son, which was shaky at best and apocalyptic at worst. She shied away from discussions about what was good for Anduin and where his future would lead. She wasn’t his mother. She didn’t have a say. 

But she couldn’t ignore the little boy who noticed, after Varian and Lo’Gosh had been reunited and reclaimed the throne, after that bitch Onyxia and the complicit nobles dealt with, that people seemed to give her a very, very wide berth. That people seemed almost hostile towards her, even the famously unruffled Spymaster Shaw, and spoke to her only when strictly necessary. The little boy who, after finding her in the castle courtyard slinging daggers at a target, approached her with his open, friendly face and said, _Hello, miss! I’m Anduin. What are you doing?_ with no fear or hesitation at all. Perhaps he’d seen the friendly way Varian treated her and decided that if his father trusted her then so did he, or maybe he was too kindhearted to _not_ reach out, to let her languish in the castle without a single friend. 

Valeera hadn’t planned on integrating herself with Varian’s son. That was a line she had never wanted to cross. But Anduin was so persistent, so innocent, so determined to be her friend that she found herself relenting, bit by bit. Anduin had that effect on people. 

She wasn’t his mother, and even when Varian was harsh with him, she never intervened on his behalf. But she found herself, as she had so long ago with Lo’Gosh in the Ring, growing protective over the boy. When he was upset, her temper flared and her fingers itched to slug whoever had set him off. And when he was happy ﹣ which was more often than not ﹣ she found that she felt lighter inside, that his cheery, infectious grin that made its way onto her face and laughter bubbled in her chest. She loved that boy, would do anything to preserve his sweet, sunny smile.

Which was what made the scene before her so much more heart-rending. Anduin, doubled over on his bed and clutching a book to his chest. Anduin, chest heaving and tears streaming down his cheeks, rocking back and forth with his book, sobbing as though his heart would break. 

“Anduin…” Valeera approached him carefully, but like his father he turned inward. He didn’t seem to register that she was there, even when the mattress dipped with her weight and she placed a hand on his shoulder. It was a long time before he could speak, sniffling and hiccuping, voice cracking.

“Anduin, I’m sorry…” 

He released the death grip on his book, and Valeera saw curling gold leaf, streams of flame from the mouth of a black dragon, and a delicately-rendered bronze wing. “He said he’d read it,” Anduin choked out. “We were… we were going to talk about it…”

Valeera rubbed circles along his back, mindful of the persistent ache in his shoulder that had not abetted after he’d healed from the Bell. Her throat felt tight. “I know.”

“He said… he said he’d read it,” he whimpered again, fat tears gathering along his lashline once more. “And I was… I was so _proud_ of him, Val…”

She nodded in understanding. She’d been proud of Varian too. Through it all, no matter how tired he was after the endless meetings, no matter how fed up he’d been with destroyed peace treaties and the Horde’s thinly-veiled threats, Varian devoted himself to seeing the _Earth and Wind_ series to the end. He raged about dropped plot points and the endless contradictions, and he _loathed_ the dragons more than was probably healthy, but he was dedicated. When he and Anduin argued, when he was at the point of tearing out his hair in frustration, Varian would scowl and bury his nose in one of Moltenbottom’s books, as if searching for something, _anything,_ that would enable him to understand his son. He got loud, when he and Anduin talked about the series, and it was one of the only times Valeera had ever seen the boy shout back without fear. Valeera couldn’t understand if Varian hated the books or if they made him more confused than he’d already been, but his eyes lit up as he talked with Anduin about them. _A Melody of_ _Earth and Wind_ was full of war and difficult decisions, sacrifices and murders, and Valeera thought, as the two argued over them, that the series had helped not just Varian but Anduin as well. The setting was fiction but the actions taken by the characters were things Varian had actually done, he or someone else Anduin trusted. By examining the harsh behaviors through the lens of fiction, with someone like his father to analyze the reasons why it might have happened, Anduin gained an insight into his father that Varian wasn’t quite able to voice on his own. By explaining the conduct of the kings and fathers in the books, Varian was explaining his own actions to his son, in a way that Anduin could understand. 

“I wanted… I never got to tell him…” 

His fingers gripped the edges of the book hard, knuckles going white around the edges. Valeera leaned her head against his.

“He knew,” she whispered, tears overflowing from her own eyes and falling gently into the boy’s hair. “He knew, Anduin.”

Anduin sagged against her. Pressed his face into her shoulder and cried anew, noiseless and defeated in the deafening silence of the room. She held him through it all, rubbing circles along his back as she’d done for his father, comforting him in the only way she knew. 

* * *

“I don’t like it.”

“I know you don’t.”

“I want him gone.”

Valeera snorted. “You don’t own the tavern, Varian. You can’t kick its patrons out.”

Varian scowled. “How much does it cost then? I’ll buy the fu﹣ the da﹣ I’ll _buy it_ and throw him out myself.”

“You can say _fuck,”_ Valeera laughed. 

“This isn’t the time to make fun of me!” Varian snarled. “There is a _black dragon_ with my son and I’m the only one who’s worried about it!” 

“I am worried about it. And so is Shaw.” She patted the empty space beside her, but Varian did not climb into bed. “He’s already sent a handful of SI:7 agents to keep watch, _in addition_ to Anduin’s personal guard. Nothing will happen.”

Varian sat heavily on the mattress, seething. “I will have him skinned for a pair of boots if he so much as _looks_ at my son.”

“I don’t think he’s big enough for that. He’s apparently only a whelp.”

“A belt then.” 

_“Varian.”_ And Valeera understood her king’s anxiety. She had some herself. The thought of Anduin, hardly able to walk after Garrosh dropped the Bell on him, alone in some Pandaren tavern with only a black dragon ﹣ _the son of Deathwing,_ no less! ﹣ for company… She suppressed a shudder. She didn’t like it. 

But Anduin was persistent. He didn’t want to be swept away to Stormwind, or even the Exodar and Velen. He wanted to stay in Pandaria and continue the diplomatic mission that had sent him there. _And what of this son of Deathwing?_ he’d asked. _They say he’s uncorrupted. He will suspect nothing if a cripple takes up residence in the tavern, but he will certainly be on edge if any of you do it._

Even Velen had agreed with him. 

Since the incident in Darnassus, when the leaders of the Alliance voted on Gilneas’s readmittance and Varian had injured Anduin’s arm, Varian had been trying hard ﹣ _very_ hard ﹣ to listen to his son. It didn’t always work. Varian was still pigheaded and quick to anger, and Anduin was still cowed by that anger, but they made significant progress, in Valeera’s opinion. The king was very conscious of his every movement, and never touched his son in anger or panic. He’d never been a violent man, only scared. Anduin was his only son, the last bit he had of his wife, and he was more mindful than ever now of his own strength. 

Valeera draped herself over his shoulders. He hadn’t gotten far undressing for sleep, had only stripped to his undershirt, and Valeera helped him shrug it off. She swatted his bottom so he’d stand, and he brushed her hands away as he unbuckled his belt and shucked off his trousers and smallclothes. Varian ran hot, especially when he was angry, and often slept naked. It didn’t really mean anything. 

She let him take his own hair down from its horsetail. In elf culture, touching a person’s hair was an intimate gesture, something done between lovers and family. She had touched Varian’s hair before, but nearly always in the throes of passion or its aftermath. She did not allow Varian to touch hers outside of that, even though she doubted he understood the significance. She assumed he thought she just didn’t like it, and that was okay with her.

Varian allowed her to pull him down into the bed, despite the tenseness of his muscles and clench of his jaw. He wasn’t resisting her, or even angry at her. He felt helpless again, as he had when Anduin had been nearly killed, and powerless to stop his son’s decision, afraid of shattering the fragile headway they’d made. Valeera knew, if he had his way, he wouldn’t even send Anduin to Stormwind to recover but instead keep him close, bringing the Alliance’s best healers to his side as he continued along in Pandaria. 

“Lay down,” she soothed, and Varian did, allowing Valeera to push him onto his side and rearrange his limbs. She pulled the blanket over them both and curled around him, the curve of his ass flush against her lap and his thighs lined up with hers. She ran strong hands along his shoulders and down his spine, kneading here and there to loosen the knots. She felt him relax under her ministrations, heard the noisy sigh exhaled through softening lips. 

“You know, the pandaren are supposed to have made massage into an art,” she murmured conversationally. 

“I’m not getting felt up by a bear.”

She bit back a laugh. “But you’ll get felt up by me?”

“You’re prettier than them.”

“I’m flattered.” She ran a hand along his side, pressed her palm flat against his belly. “I’m serious though. You’re so _tense,_ Varian, and you know I’m not good at massages. You’ve complained often enough.” And she wasn’t. All she knew was what she’d learned as a gladiator, rubbing the soreness from her muscles and working out the kinks. These pandaren were skilled, she’d heard, and the masseuse she’d sometimes employed in Stormwind had told her once that he aspired to become as adept as they were. 

“I like when you do it,” he muttered. 

“That’s not a massage.”

“It helps.” He thumped at his pillow to soften it, laid back down grumpily. “Can you do the circles?” he asked, his voice very small. 

“Just relax.” She moved the hand on his stomach in slow, easy motions, spiraling larger before shrinking into tight, compact circles and then widening them again. As they had in their gladiator days, the movement kept him grounded, kept the melancholy thoughts out of his head. “Close your eyes.” 

He did. She felt him melt into the mattress, saw the tension leave his neck and his broad shoulders sag. She would never admit it ﹣ not to him or even out loud ﹣ but this was her favorite look on him. The lines of his face soft and his eyes merely closed, not squeezed tightly shut. She had his complete and utter trust, and he allowed himself to feel at ease and safe beneath her touch. It made her heart hurt. 

“What would I do without you, Val?” he sighed into his pillow.

“Probably combust.” 

“Stop.”

“Just explode, like a shitty goblin bomb﹣”

“Vaaaal.”

“﹣spewing shrapnel everywhere.”

“You really know how to ruin a mood, don’t you?”

She laughed, pressed her forehead to his back. “Go to sleep.”

* * *

Valeera eyed Wrathion in the morning sun. He’d emerged from Anduin’s tent, not a hair out of place beneath that ridiculous turban, smoothing the front of his robes and straightening the many bangles around his wrists. He turned after a moment, ducked his head past the tent flaps, and then resurfaced, grinning. He saw Valeera looking and flashed her a dazzling smile, even going so far as to wink cheekily at her, before traipsing away, just as the guards came in from their shift change. The whole exchange had taken maybe two minutes, but they hadn’t seen Wrathion, or if they had, they didn’t care. 

She felt her blood boil. 

Anduin had finally been persuaded to return to Lion’s Landing, and Valeera had gone out to fetch him. She hadn’t expected the so-called Black Prince to be with him on the Timeless Isle, and she especially hadn’t expected them to be _sharing a tent._ She’d watched the dragon slip inside in the wee hours of the morning, and his own Blacktalons station themselves a discreet distance away. Perhaps the humans didn’t hear what was happening but Valeera’s sharp elf ears did. She was completely and utterly revolted, and terrified that the dragon had bewitched him as the Prestors had all those years ago. 

Valeera wasn’t his mother, but she felt protective towards the boy, and her designation as bodyguard meant she had to safeguard not just Varian (who admittedly could take care of himself) but Anduin as well. She gestured for his guards to stand aside, and pushed back the flap. 

“Val!” Anduin yelped. “You could’ve given some warning!” He was shirtless (though thankfully not pantsless), the tunic in his hand fluttering to the floor. Scars covered his body, some thicker and angrier than others. Velen said most of them would fade in time. It was difficult for him to bend, and Valeera saved him the trouble by stooping to retrieve the tunic and holding it out. 

“Sorry,” she said, not sorry at all. It was probably best that she had seen Wrathion, and not Varian. Nothing would have stopped the man from rushing the dragon and tearing him limb from limb. 

“Um.” Anduin pulled his shirt over his head as fast as his healing muscles would allow. She wondered vaguely if he’d ever let anyone see this much of him, being cut from the same modest cloth as his father. “Are we leaving already?”

She shook her head. What was she doing here? She had rushed over in some sort of… _maternal_ panic, and the thought unnerved her. If anything, she was the closest thing Anduin had to a sister. A sister who slept with his father.

Okay, no more familiar metaphors. That was starting to head down an ugly road and she shook her head to clear her thoughts. 

“No, not yet.” She watched as he pulled his sleeve down to cover a fine bangle of the same sort the Black Prince wore. He gave Anduin jewelry? Just what kind of relationship did Anduin have with Wrathion?

_The kind that involves late night sleepovers and sneaking out during shift changes._

Ohhh, _fuck._ Varian was going to have an aneurysm.

“Sleep well?” she asked mildly, eyes sweeping the inside of the tent. The bed was mussed but that proved nothing. It was early and Anduin had only just gotten up, after all. 

“Hmm? Oh. Yes,” Anduin said quickly. “Very well. Better than I have in a while, actually. I think the Timeless Isle agrees with me.” 

“Mm.” A long black hair lay innocuously on the pillow, and Valeera’s eyes narrowed. If she'd had any doubt at all about the boys' nighttime activities, that single hair put them to rest. Wrathion had been in Anduin's _bed._

She knew what Varian would do. She was not Varian, but the rage brewing in her gut threatened to overflow, to unleash itself on this innocent and _dumb_ boy before her. She stared at him; his eyes were blue and very clear, no trace of the fog she remembered on the Prestors’ bewitched nobles. 

Should she say something to him? Should she lecture him about the dangers of black dragons, remind him of that bitch Katrana Prestor and all she’d tried to do to his family? Should she forgo the yelling and just tell him to be safe? Or should she ignore it, continue to be the bastion of solace to which Anduin would turn when Varian inevitably found out and lost his shit? 

She couldn’t ignore it. 

“What’s that?” she asked, indicating the hidden bangle. She did not reach for him. She didn’t want to spark any memory of the night Varian had accidentally hurt him, the worst night of their lives. 

She didn’t have to, thankfully. Anduin had always been sharp on the uptake. His hand went to his wrist and clamped down on the bangle. “What?”

Valeera would have smiled, if the situation weren’t so dire. “That bracelet on your arm,” she said, trying to keep her voice light, and quiet enough that Anduin’s guards did not hear. “Have you started wearing jewelry now?” she teased.

“Oh.” The tone relaxed him, and after a moment he pulled his sleeve back to show her. It was a thin golden bangle, free of jewels or other adornments. Perhaps it _wasn’t_ Wrathion’s. It looked far too plain. 

“Very nice,” she said appreciatively. “Do I have to find a grummle or a certain bazaar to buy my own?”

And here Anduin flushed, as he always did when he knew he was in trouble. “I got it from a friend,” he mumbled. “Swiped it, actually.” 

Valeera’s eyebrows shot into her hair. Anduin was _stealing?_ “Swiped it,” she repeated.

“Well.” And Anduin blushed harder. “He’d taken it off and I tried it on. He said I could keep it.”

Oh. That wasn’t so bad. Valeera had done the same with several of Varian’s shirts over the years. And Varian had plucked any number of her hair ties from the night stand to wind into his own hair. That was…

Sort of intimate, really. Sharing things that were meant to be worn. Valeera knew she wouldn’t give a bracelet ﹣ or anything ﹣ to someone she merely considered a friend. 

“Anduin.” She was going to have to say it, wasn’t she? “I saw Wrathion.” 

And he paled. “What? Wrathi﹣”

“Just now, leaving your tent.” She kept her voice very calm. She was furious, yes, but not at Anduin. Anduin was just a boy. He didn’t know any better. And objectively, the mortal form the Black Prince had chosen _was_ attractive. Even if he hadn’t bewitched the boy magically, he still had his looks. “What was he doing here?”

“Don’t tell my father.” 

She stared at him. 

“Please, Val.” His eyes were huge blue saucers. “Don’t tell him.” 

She was reminded, years ago, of another Wrynn, looking at her with those same wide eyes, begging her not to tell his son he was reading the boy’s favorite book. _I don’t want to disappoint him again._

Except this was not the same at all, because Varian’s secret was a book and Anduin’s was a _fucking black dragon._

She sighed. “Anduin﹣”

“I want to do it myself,” he blurted, words tripping over themselves in a rush. “I know he’ll be upset and he’ll probably yell, and there’s the succession and I don’t think he’ll really understand, but I want to﹣”

She held up her hand. “Stop. Just. Stop.” She pinched at the bridge of her nose, thankful that it had been her who’d seen and at the same time cursing every deity she knew to have been the one to see Wrathion exiting Anduin's tent. “I really ﹣ I don’t give a shit that you like ﹣ he’s a _black dragon,”_ she growled. _“That’s_ why he’ll be upset. Wrathion is a black dragon, and your family was nearly ruined by black dragons.”

Anduin stared at her, dumbstruck. Did he﹣? Did he really think that wouldn’t have been an issue?

“He’s not like Onyxia,” he said at last. “He doesn’t share their corruption.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I do.” 

Valeera really wished she hadn’t seen the damnable Black Prince leaving the tent. She didn’t want to have this conversation. 

“I’m not having this conversation,” she muttered. “It’ll be easier if I gut him myself.”

“Valeera!” 

“What? He’s clearly _done_ something to you, Anduin! The sooner he’s dead, the sooner it goes away!”

“He hasn’t done anything to me!” Anduin was shouting now, not caring for the guards eavesdropping at the tent flap. “Val, I _like_ him, okay? I like him. I don’t… It doesn’t matter that he’s a black dragon. He’s not like Onyxia.” He glared at her and she felt a little uneasy. He’d never looked at her like that before. “I remember Onyxia,” he said steadily. “You all think I don’t, but I do. I remember what it’s like to be bewitched. Wrathion isn’t like that, he’s never done anything like that to me.”

“Then what’s that?” Valeera gestured to the bangle around his wrist. “Why would he give you that then?” She knew about dragons and their _gifts._ Katrana Prestor had liked to exert control through small presents to Stormwind’s nobility, potent dragon magic concealed within hairpins and pocket watches and pretty baubles. They’d lost their power after her death, but SI:7 had confiscated and destroyed them anyway. Just in case. 

“It’s just ﹣ it’s just a _bracelet,”_ Anduin shot back, indignant and angry. He pulled it from his wrist and held it out to her. “Take it, then, if you’re so worried about it!” 

She snatched it without thinking. Wrathion could still hoodwink the boy, but he was young and his abilities would be diminished without the bracelet as an anchor. “I’ll have it examined. If it’s just a bracelet like you say, you can have it back.” 

She wanted to be offended that he rolled his eyes at her, but she wasn’t Varian. She and Anduin had always had that sort of relationship, one with eyerolling and inside jokes and sneaking cakes from the castle kitchens. If she had been Varian, Anduin’s eyerolling would have been a gesture of the utmost disrespect, a sign that he had completely given up on the conversation and was not interested in listening to her concerns anymore. He was frighteningly like his father, in that regard. But she wasn’t Varian, and Anduin had been rolling his eyes at her ﹣ in amused exasperation, in mild displeasure, and with fondness ﹣ for years. 

Valeera slipped the bangle over her own wrist and informed him that they would be departing soon, before turning on her heel and slipping out of the tent.

* * *

She thought about asking Shaw and SI:7 to look at Wrathion’s little trinket, but one word from the man to Varian and everything would implode. Shaw was a master at lying by omission, but even he would be compelled to bring the matter of a black dragon gifting Anduin jewelry to his king. 

Jaina Proudmoore was close to the Wrynns, but unlike Shaw, she understood that Anduin was his own person and did not need to be watched every second of every day. She was close enough to the boy that he called her his aunt, and he had stayed with her several times in Theramore when he needed to breathe. He even owned a hearthstone attuned to Jaina’s living room, although Valeera supposed it didn’t work anymore now that Theramore had been bombed. She didn’t know if she trusted Jaina at the moment, however. The mage had exhibited more of Varian’s tendencies as of late, becoming quick to anger and suspicious where she had once been patient and trusting. Valeera didn’t blame her, exactly. She had trusted the Horde not to destroy Theramore, and they’d dropped a manabomb on it. 

But Jaina wasn’t a bad idea, because where she would find Jaina, she would find Jaina’s dragon paramour, Kalec. Kalec was a member of the blue flight, but Valeera didn’t think dragon magic differed overmuch between black and blue. If anyone could sniff out magic in Wrathion’s gift, it would be Kalec, and most importantly of all, he would be _discreet._ Kalec might share Jaina’s bed, but he did not share her loyalty to the Alliance or Varian, being truly neutral in all conflict. It was frustrating at times, but it would serve Valeera’s purposes here. 

“Where are you going?” Varian asked, once she and Anduin appeared back at Lion’s Landing. She hadn’t told him she would be leaving, and she had no other work at the moment. 

“I have some business,” she said evasively. She and Varian rarely pried into one another's lives. Even when making her biannual pilgrimage to Quel’Thalas and the Sunwell, Varian asked her no questions, nothing more than _Did you enjoy your trip?_ despite his less than warm feelings towards the sin’dorei and the Horde. He understood that it was important to her, to visit her homeland, and had never even asked her to spy. She hoped he would think this was a matter of the same sort, so he would let her go without question. 

Varian raised an eyebrow. “Alright.” And then, “When do you think you’ll be back?”

“Shouldn’t be more than a handful of days. Go on without me, I’ll find you.” 

He was distracted by Anduin, sinking down heavily into a chair and leaning more than he needed to on his cane. All thoughts of Valeera fled as Varian focused all of his attention on his son, fussing like a mother hen, and Valeera shot the boy a grateful smile. She didn’t know if he knew what she planned, or even if he’d guessed why she was leaving, but she knew that he wasn’t as frail as he was acting now, allowing his father to help him lower his weight comfortably in the chair and placing a pillow behind his back. Perhaps he was just determined for Valeera to learn that he was right, and the gift harmless. Just a simple bracelet. 

She would find out soon enough. She left the room, hunted down a mage, and demanded a portal to Dalaran. 

  
  
  


“There’s no magic on it,” Kalec told her. She’d interrupted him ﹣ he had been getting ready to leave, to pursue some secret mission he’d not wanted to reveal to her. She didn’t especially care about that, as long as it didn’t concern Varian or Anduin, which he assured her it didn’t. But he’d kindly taken a moment to acquiesce her request, taking the bangle from her and holding it in both hands. 

“You’re sure?” Valeera pressed. “There’s nothing at all?”

He looked at her oddly. “Do you want there to be?”

“No.”

“Then why aren’t you happy about it?” He examined the bracelet, running one finger around the inside as though cleaning it of dust, before handing it back. 

“I just thought there would be,” she admitted. The bangle lay innocently in her hand, and she glared at it. _Why_ wasn’t there magic on it? Why would a black dragon gift jewelry to _the prince of Stormwind_ and not enchant it? It didn’t make sense. 

“Where did you get it?” Kalec asked, tucking a lock of blue hair thoughtfully behind one short, pointed ear. 

“Pandaria.”

And he laughed. “I figured. There’s a stamp along the seam, if you look carefully. The seal script is a popular pandaren maker’s mark.” And there was a stamp, a small square of curious pandaren characters. “But it’s not magical, just the name of the person who crafted it. It’s just a gold bracelet. Who gave it to you?” he tried.

“A friend.”

“A dragon friend?”

She glared. 

“Why else would you ask me to look at it?” Kalec pointed out. “Any mage could have found traces of arcane magic, but only a dragon can detect the most well hidden draconic spells.” He levied her with a concerned stare. “Is everything alright, Valeera?”

_I don’t fucking know anymore._

“Fine. Thank you for your time.” She jammed the bangle back onto her wrist.

“Anytime.” He looked like he wanted to say more but he didn’t, and instead kindly opened a portal back to Pandaria.

* * *

“Varian, calm down.”

“How the fuck can I be calm?!”

Wow. He was really worked up. She hadn’t even been gone that long. 

The look on her face must have done something to him because he pulled back from where he was steadily destroying the unlucky pillow that’d had the misfortune of being within reach. “Sorry,” he muttered. 

And he crushed the pillow to his face and screamed. 

Valeera was a loss. Even Shaw had been rendered speechless; he hadn’t said a word since Valeera had walked in. 

“What happened?” she asked him. “Has he been like this long?”

Shaw coughed. “He, ah… His Highness and the king breakfasted this morning, where High Highness informed﹣”

“He’s _bedding_ a black dragon!” Varian moaned from his pillow. 

The spymaster shifted uneasily. “Those weren’t his exact words, but. Yes, that is what happened.” Their relationship had softened over the years, and while Shaw still didn’t exactly like Valeera, he understood that she was devoted to the Wrynns, and that seemed to have gotten her off his shit list. He’d been the one to send for her, after she’d returned, and brought her to Varian’s rooms and the scene before her.

“He what?” Valeera was stunned. She would have never expected Anduin to be so bold. 

Shaw looked grim. “As you can imagine, His Majesty did not take it well.” He didn’t look like he had either. Valeera didn’t envy Shaw in that moment. Why did none of his SI:7 agents know?

Suddenly the pillow was flying across the room, feathers trailing from the hole Varian had ripped along the seam. “My boy ﹣ _my_ boy ﹣ _Wrathion_ ﹣!” He slammed a fist into the wall behind him, which cracked under the force. “Plenty of women back home ﹣ how many offers I’ve had from ﹣ and he chooses ﹣ he’d rather ﹣ black dragon _dick_ ﹣!”

He was getting dangerously out of control. Valeera thought maybe he’d had something to drink; Varian had been _so_ careful since the incident in Darnassus to control his temper. A pillow was one thing, a wall was another. 

“Varian!” She stormed over and got in his face. Even when they were gladiators, he’d always been reluctant to hit a woman. It was only his own self-preservation that allowed him to, to keep him alive when they came after him. “Hey. Stay with me.” 

He stared at her, breathing hard through his nose. 

“Stay with me,” she repeated. “Don’t get lost in your head.” The words seemed to have an effect on him, and slowly his hand dropped from the fractured wall.

“Do you have a problem with it because he’s a black dragon, or because your son likes cock?”

 _“What?”_ Varian’s nostrils flared, and out of the corner of her eye, Valeera saw Shaw stiffen. She was pretty sure he was gay, and immediately felt bad for putting him in such a difficult position. Shaw was a professional and completely loyal to the royal family, but she didn’t think he needed to hear his preferences sullied by his king. 

“How can you ﹣ of course it’s ﹣ _Valeera,”_ Varian stammered, face coloring. Valeera didn’t think he necessarily had an issue with two men in a relationship ﹣ as long as it didn’t affect him. And unfortunately, his son in a relationship with a man definitely affected him. A black dragon was worse, and Valeera thought that _that_ was the more pressing issue here. They could talk about Anduin’s sexuality later, but the dragon thing was important. 

She held his eyes until he looked away. “He’s ﹣ a _black dragon,_ Val.” 

“Right.” She nodded. “The dragon is the problem here, Varian. What are we going to do about the dragon?”

  
  
  


As it turned out, they hadn’t had to do anything. Wrathion took care of the problem all on his own, by knocking Anduin unconscious, freeing Garrosh, and running off with a bronze dragon. Valeera had never seen Varian so angry, or Anduin so sad.

“Go away,” came the prince’s mournful voice as the guards let her into his rooms. They’d returned to Stormwind several days ago, but Anduin hadn’t left his chambers once. He’d been very quiet after the catastrophic trial, and when pressed, would claim a headache from the bump the Black Prince had given him. Valeera was worried.

“I told the guards not to let anyone in,” Anduin complained. His eyes were puffy, and he was cocooned in his thick down comforter. 

“I told them I was here on the king’s order.”

He closed his eyes. “I don’t want to hear _I told you so,_ Val. Please.” His lashline grew wet, and Valeera’s heart broke. 

“I’m not here to say _I told you so,”_ she said gently. She didn’t know quite what he was feeling ﹣ she’d never lost a lover (and she blanched for a moment, thinking that Anduin’d had a _lover)_ , not the way he had. But she had lost a family, her mother and brothers to bandits and her father to the Burning Legion. She didn’t think it was quite the same. She hadn’t cried for her father, after all. But she remembered the horrible throbbing emptiness she’d felt when her mother and brothers were killed. She remembered waiting for her father to save her, for the ache to stop and the tears to dry up. It had been one of the worst times of her life. 

She stroked his side through the comforter, rubbed his back. “I forgot, in all the chaos afterward. I forgot to give this back to you.” She’d hesitated when she saw Wrathion’s bangle with her things, not knowing if she should return it to Anduin, or if he’d even want it at all. But she’d promised that if there was no magic on it that Anduin could have it back, and Kalec had said it was clean as a whistle. Valeera couldn’t lie to the boy and keep it; she’d never lied to Anduin before. She didn’t think she could.

She couldn’t believe Wrathion had.

Carefully she extracted the bangle from her own wrist and placed it gently on the mattress by the pillow. Anduin’s eyes darted to it, and his eyes welled anew. 

“It’s just a bracelet,” she said softly. “Just like you said.”

He reached out a hesitant hand from beneath his covers, as though afraid the bracelet would bite him. 

“I’m sorry I didn’t believe you.” 

His fingers closed around it, and then his entire hand. It looked so small, gold shining at either end of his closed fist, his hands large like his father's. Anduin buried his face into his pillow and wept. 

“Do you want me to stay with you?” she asked quietly. If Anduin weren’t Varian’s son, she would have climbed into bed behind him and held him close and just let him cry in her arms, shushing him and rubbing his back until he calmed. But he was, and she didn’t think it would be right to lay in bed with her lover’s son, no matter how chaste her behavior and intentions. 

Anduin shook his head into the pillow.

“Okay.” She gave his shoulder a tentative squeeze and stood up. “Just holler if you need. I’ll be close.” 

She shut his bedroom doors quietly, wanting to give him privacy in case any servants came into his rooms with a tray. She let herself out of his chambers, and gave strict orders to the guards that Anduin should remain undisturbed. And then she melted into the shadows of the castle to seethe. 

Anduin _liked_ Wrathion, and the Black Prince had betrayed him and broken his heart. If Valeera ever saw the dragon again, she’d put a knife in his throat herself. 

* * *

“Anduin! It’s been so long!” 

Everything seemed to happen in slow motion. Valeera watched as Anduin rose from the dais, eyes wide. As he pushed past Shaw, as Magni took a step back. She felt like she was underwater as she turned to face Magni and the new advisor, a handsome man in dark, well-cut clothes with glowing red eyes. 

_Wrathion._

The dragon held his arms out as though expecting a hug, and for a moment, Valeera thought Anduin would give it. Only for a moment. 

And the king’s arm reared back, and he punched Wrathion in the face.

Only Magni was unfazed. “Dragons,” he muttered.

Wrathion’s head had been knocked back by the force of Anduin’s strike, vicious enough even to have disturbed his human disguise. His cheek glowed briefly, like lava beneath the skin, before it healed itself, once again smooth and undisturbed. 

Valeera’s hand went to the dagger at her hip. She saw Shaw do the same.

“Oh,” said Wrathion, rubbing his cheek. “I suppose I deserve that.”

“You more than deserve it!” Anduin shouted. “My father is _dead_ because of you!” 

“And _my_ father is dead because of the Old Gods.” To his credit, the dragon did not back down from Anduin’s wrath. He knew what he’d done, and he would face the anger.

“Lad,” Magni said gently. “He’s come tae help us.”

  
  
  


Valeera slammed Wrathion against the wall.

 _“What are you doing here?!”_ she hissed. 

“My dear,” said Wrathion, much too suave for a man whose head had just been knocked into the stone, “I don’t object to your methods of seduction, but don’t you suppose the hall is a bit public?”

Valeera’s lip curled in disgust. “Why have you come back?!”

“I thought Magni made that quite clear.”

She fisted his robes and shoved him hard, until he was standing nearly on the toes of his pointed black boots. “Anduin,” she snarled. “Why can’t you leave him alone?!”

Wrathion blinked at her. Chuckled. “What?”

The fact that the Black Prince could swagger his way into Stormwind ﹣ after what he’d done and the pain he’d caused Anduin ﹣ and _laugh_ about it.... Her dagger was at his throat before she could fully process what she was doing.

“You are here as a guest of Magni Bronzebeard,” she growled, “and that is the _only_ reason I have not run you through. The pain you’ve caused, the _suffering,_ is unforgivable.”

Wrathion stared at her. She felt his heart thud beneath her hand, betraying his illusion of calmness. Slowly, as though choosing his words with great care, he told her, “If my past actions have caused you pain, I apolo﹣”

She spat. “I don’t give a shit about your apologies!” She couldn’t kill him for the rules of hospitality, but nothing said she couldn’t rough him up a bit. He winced as the edge of her blade pressed into his skin. “I swear on all that is holy, if you hurt him again, I will kill you. I will rip out your intestines and strangle you with them. I will cut out your internal organs and feed them to you, and after they’d worked their way through what’s left of your digestive system, I will stuff your bowels in your miserable mouth until you choke on your own shit.”

Wrathion blinked. “How will my organs make it to my bowels when you’ve ripped out my intestines?”

“Shut up!”

“Ms Sanguinar? Is everything alright?”

Valeera’s ears flicked at the sound of Shaw’s low voice but she did not take her eyes from the dragon. “Move along, Shaw. Nothing to see here.” 

Shaw cocked his head. Looked from her to the dragon whose throat was making itself acquainted with her dagger. “I believe Magni is looking for you, _Advisor._ You’d best find him before he starts yelling.”

“Oh, I know all about the yelling,” Wrathion said smoothly, as though he wasn't shoved against a wall with a dagger at his throat. He might have been concussed. “Nasty when he gets started ﹣ I ought to go see what he wants.” He looked at Valeera pointedly, and with a snarl she let him go. 

“You’ve got a little something.” Shaw gestured to his own throat and watched as Wrathion carefully touched his neck, studied the blood that came away on his fingers. 

“I suppose I do.” He didn’t heal it like he had his cheek when Anduin punched him. Merely adjusted the collar of his robes primly. “Can’t be helped, I’m afraid. I’m a wanted man, no time to wash up.” 

“Magni,” Shaw reminded him.

“Yes, Magni. Thank you.” And he strutted off, despite not even knowing where Magni was. 

Shaw turned to look at her. “You shouldn’t murder people in the castle,” he said coolly.

“You don’t know what he did to Anduin!” Valeera snarled. “Murder is too good for him.”

“I know exactly what he did to His Majesty. It’s my job to know everything that goes on around here.” Shaw’s eyes were very green in the lamplight, she noticed, hard and sharp. “I’m merely suggesting, that should you need to dispose of a body, it’s probably best not to do it in the hall.”

Valeera stared at him. Slowly sheathed her dagger. “I see.” 

“I’ve got eyes on him,” the spymaster assured her. “And I promise you that should he put a single toe out of line, he will be dealt with immediately.”

“Right.”

“But should you wish to take matters into your own hands…” And here he spread his own, as if to say _I can’t stop you._ “There is a very nice spot across the lake. By the weeping willow. Very private, and difficult to see from the castle.” 

She catalogued that for future reference. Perhaps not Wrathion, but you never knew. A grin spread across her face. “Thanks for the suggestion. I would have thought you’d have words for me.”

And Shaw fixed her with a very serious look. “I probably should,” he admitted. “But His Majesty has that effect on people.”

“Yes,” she agreed. “He does.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sure Valeera has fantasized about flaying Wrathion alive at some point.


	4. Shaw

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Valeera doesn't even _like_ Mathias Shaw. Somehow he attaches herself to her anyway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was a _beast_ to write, and it somehow became the longest out of all of them. O_o
> 
> The flashback scenes are written in backwards order, so the first is the more recent (closest to Legion time) and the last is the oldest (BC).

“Are you alright?”

Shaw’s tone was light, intended not to cause offense, but it set her off anyway.

“Yes,” Valeera snapped, “I’m great. I’m fucking fantastic.” She took a deep pull from the bottle she’d filched from the wine cellar. “As you can see.”

Shaw raised an eyebrow. “Yes,” he echoed faintly. “Clearly you’re… holding up well.”

“What do you want, Shaw?” Valeera was tired. She was weary with bone deep exhaustion that had nothing to do with any biological need, a fatigue that no amount of sleep could cure. She’d seen to Anduin, morose and listless in his rooms, and interrogated Greymane and those who had been at the Broken Shore more than she really had any right to; and she’d stood stiff in the throne room as Anduin had been crowned King of Stormwind. 

She hadn’t gone to the funeral. She couldn’t make herself stand there, amongst the nobles and faction leaders. She was sad and angry and no amount of touching elegies for Varian’s empty casket would bring him back. All Valeera wanted to do was finish her bottle of wine, crawl into bed, and pray fervently that this was all a very bad dream. 

Shaw didn’t seem intent on letting her do that. 

He took a seat beside her and gently pried the wine bottle from her hand. “Ms Sanguinar,” he started, before shaking his head. “Valeera, if I may.”

“You may not.”

“Valeera,” he said again, and she huffed in annoyance. “I have watched for months as you’ve let yourself into the kitchens every night and made your way through the wine cellar.”

She scowled. “Take it out of my pay.” Varian had never been able to persuade Shaw to take her on as SI:7, and her stipend came from the king’s own pocket ﹣ Anduin’s pocket now ﹣ but powerful as he was, Shaw could dip into it if he wished. He’d certainly not been shy about the fact that he knew how much gold she made. Bodyguard and covert assassin didn’t seem to warrant the same salary as an SI:7 operative, it seemed to him.

“We both know this isn’t about the wine,” Shaw said gently. He placed the bottle out of reach and ignored her glare.

“I guess Varian’s finally rubbed off on me then.” And how many nights had she or Shaw found him here, drunk or on his way, all his emotions exacerbated through the bottle? Varian had liked wine ﹣ and ale, and rum, and beer ﹣ and could make any occasion into a drinking one. He could have made a drinking game out of his own funeral, even. 

“I think you need some time off.” Shaw was looking at her, with pity ﹣ no, with _concern,_ and Valeera didn’t know how to feel about that. He’d given her plenty of looks over the years, mostly of annoyance and exasperation, but he’d never looked at her like that before. 

“Anduin﹣”

“Will be fine,” he assured her. 

“I can’t just leave him,” she argued.

“Are you really doing much for him as you are?” His tone and his eyes were kind and it was too much. Shaw didn’t _speak_ to people like that. She watched, dumbfounded, as he carefully extracted a piece of paper from the pouch on his belt. No, not just paper. A letter. He placed it on the table between them.

“What’s that?” she asked suspiciously. Surely not the opportunity to become an operative, nothing he’d offer and not one she’d take. She enjoyed her independence and freedom from the crown. 

“When His Majesty left for the Broken Shore, you had already gone to Dalaran,” Shaw explained. Varian had asked her, unattached to SI:7 as she was, to work with the Uncrowned. She was due back soon, actually, if she didn’t take bereavement. “He gave this to me for safekeeping, and told me should anything happen to him that it find its way into your hands.”

Valeera stared at him. Varian had written Anduin a letter ﹣ it had come in the hand of a beleaguered champion straight from Greymane. Anduin wouldn’t let anyone else lay eyes on it, but it had made him cry and she inferred that Varian had written it just before he’d died. Perhaps right when he knew they could not win, before he'd charged in anyway.

She hadn’t expected a letter. She hadn’t expected anything. Anduin had let her keep her chambers in the near side of the castle, and she was still paid by the crown, but she hadn’t… Of course _Anduin_ had gotten a letter, Anduin was Varian’s son… The idea that he would have written… 

Her fingers itched to take it, to snatch it from the table and tear the seal off, devour Varian’s last words, but… she was afraid too. Why had Varian felt the need to leave her a letter? Had Shaw gotten one? Or Greymane? Why write to her?

Shaw’s eyes were pointedly fixed away from her, to give her privacy during this difficult moment. But he seemed to have more to say, until finally, very quietly, he told her, “I think he loved you, you know.”

What. 

Valeera’s first instinct was to roll her eyes. Varian had never said those words or anything resembling them, not to anyone but Anduin. Sure, they cared for each other ﹣ more than was probably appropriate, all things considered, since Shaw had felt the need to step in a number of times and “remind” her that Varian would never remarry, and the people would not accept a blood elven queen.

Had Varian told Shaw he﹣? 

“What?”

And Shaw’s gaze was drawn back to her, a sad little frown tugging at the corners of his mouth. “I really think he did,” was all he said, before reaching forward and covering her hand with one of his own and squeezing. “Take a few days off, Valeera. I’ve got His Majesty until you return.” And then he was sliding out of his chair and crossing the room, and within a moment he was gone and she was alone again, with only the last of her wine and Varian’s letter for company. 

She realized she was staring after him open-mouthed and closed it quickly. 

Shaw had placed the bottle out of arm’s reach, forcing her to confront the letter if she wanted it back. She wasn’t drunk, really, but her head spun in a way that was quickly becoming uncomfortable. She leaned over, snatched the bottle, and drained the rest in quick succession. 

And then she opened the letter. 

_Valeera,_

_If you’re reading this letter, then I did not survive the assault on the Broken Shore. You must understand that this is how it ends with Wrynn kings, and I honestly expected nothing less. Please, help Anduin to die peacefully in his bed of old age and break him of this cycle._

_I’ve rewritten this letter so many times. There is so much I wish to say to you. So much I should have said, that I will hopefully get the chance to say. Our odds look grim even from Stormwind, but I’m sure being in Dalaran, and much closer to the conflict, you would have a better idea. I’ve never said this before but I hope I’m wrong about it. I hope this letter never reaches you, but in case it does..._

_Valeera. For nearly nine years, you have stood by me, from the sorry amnesiac I was as Lo’Gosh to reclaiming my throne and becoming High King of the Alliance. You stayed, despite your dislike and distrust of the nobility, despite the at times outright hostility shown to you for your race. Never once have I doubted you or your intentions. I was never King Varian Wrynn to you, and I was never not King Varian Wrynn to anyone else._

_I think, perhaps, you and Anduin are the only ones who see me for who I truly am._

_I am not the best at sweeping emotional declarations or long personal confessions. You’ve made fun of me for it often enough. What was it you called me? "An emotionally constipated oaf." You’re not entirely incorrect. After the death of my wife, I closed myself off from even Anduin. I thought perhaps if I never cared for another living soul, I could never be hurt again. Of course that was stupid of me. You touched something inside of me that had gone cold and dead with my wife, and I realized that long ago. Before we reclaimed the city from Onyxia, do you remember what I asked you? On the ship?_

_I wouldn’t have asked that of just anyone._

_And then, as I fully understood my feelings for you, I could not bring myself to say anything else. I am, and always will be, an emotionally constipated oaf. But I told you, over and over, how I felt, and I think, if I do not die at the Shore_ ﹣ _if the writing of this letter proves utterly fruitless and it never needs to be sent_ ﹣ _I will tell you plainly, when we see each other again. I cannot and will never be able to give you the simple and anonymous life you desire, but I think, if that truly mattered, you would have left me long ago._

_Stay with me._

  
  


Valeera’s hands shook. She could hardly see the writing ﹣ Varian’s thick, broad pen strokes ﹣ for her tears, and could not bring herself to put the letter down, to save it from her anguish. Teardrops ran down her cheeks as she stared at the definitive words, the closest of any emotional avowal she’d ever received from Varian. She didn’t… she couldn’t put to words how she felt, reading them on the page. She had heard those three words often enough over the years, always… when Varian was _emotional,_ she realized. 

_“Stay with me,”_ he’d pleaded that day on the ship. His hand had covered her own on the railing, and she’d felt the shake in it, the uncertainty that they’d be able to retake Stormwind, to put him back on the throne.

 _“Stay with me,”_ he’d asked, after the fiasco that had been his first attempts at bonding with Anduin. She’d chastised him for leaving the cathedral, and in the end he’d admitted she was right, had sighed and gotten up to find his son.

 _“Stay with me,”_ he’d murmured into her hair in the dead of the night, when he thought she was asleep. She wasn’t, because she never fell asleep before he did, but she let him believe, because he'd been vulnerable in those moments and...

 _Stay with me, stay with me, stay with me._ How many times had he said that to her? How many times had he looked like he’d wanted to say more? Why hadn’t she realized? Why hadn’t she understood that he’d been telling her _stay with me_ for the better part of nine years because he really meant…

 _Stay with me,_ he’d gasped, the night before she’d left, blood rushing in her ears as he shuddered inside her. _Stay with me,_ as he’d lowered himself gently to her chest, wrapping his strong arms around her and listening to the beat of her heart. 

Valeera buried her face in her hands and wept.

* * *

Amber Kearnan was dead. 

On its own, it wasn’t something terribly concerning. Valeera had never spoken to Amber Kearnan and only vaguely knew who she was. But Kearnan was SI:7, and in fact one of their top agents in her own right, and she’d been found with a knife in her back.

In Valeera’s experience, that combination didn’t usually bode well. 

“SI:7’s been acting oddly,” Jorach Ravenholdt mused, tapping the letter that had been found with the dead agent. “Sanguinar, you’re friendly with Mathias Shaw ﹣ did you know anything about this?”

“Not at all.” The last time she had seen Shaw had been when he’d given her Varian’s letter, almost a month ago. He'd convinced her she'd needed some time off, and she took it, spending several weeks with Broll in Val'sharah, effectively cut off from the world. “Shaw and I don’t swap stories over tea, but the last I’d heard, he was heading a team dispatched to the Broken Shore.” She frowned. “I’m afraid I’ve been away attending a personal matter ﹣ what’s been going on?”

“SI:7 agents have been posted in various Horde territories,” said Taoshi, envoy to the Shado-Pan. 

“SI:7 has always been in Horde territory,” Valeera interrupted. 

“Right,” Taoshi agreed. “Which is why we didn’t think too much of it until we learned they’d been posted by order of King Anduin, in Orgrimmar, Thunder Bluff, Undercity, and Silvermoon.” 

Valeera frowned. “Why? What are they even doing there?” Valeera knew that SI:7 sometimes infiltrated the cities, and that taking out high profile targets was their job. But city reconnaissance had always been _her_ job, blending in as she did. Donned in red and gold and hidden daggers, she looked like any other blood elf in any other Horde city. 

“We don’t know,” scowled Garona Halforcen, tapping her nails irritably on the table. “We were hoping you would.”

“I don’t. With the ceasefire, Vari﹣” and here she choked, almost imperceptibly “﹣Varian ordered all agents withdrawn from the cities, and the outposts in Durotar, Mulgore, Lordaeron, and Quel’Thalas thinned.” They’d needed all of SI:7 on hand for their foray to the Broken Isles, and Warchief Vol’jin and Varian had agreed to a temporary peace while the Alliance and Horde prepared for the Legion. 

Of course, both Vol’jin and Varian were _dead…_

“When you saw him last,” Taoshi pressed, “did Shaw seem strange to you? Did he say or do anything odd?”

_Not unless you count the first show of sympathy I’ve seen in nine years, then no._

“Not really. He was exactly the same.”

“An asshole?” Vanessa VanCleef supplied. 

Valeera didn’t understand why the comment rankled as it did. She called Shaw an asshole all the time. “Yes,” she said tersely. 

“I saw him not long ago,” said Tess Greymane. “I wouldn’t say I’m an expert in Mathias Shaw, but he seemed…” She groped for the word. _“Harsh._ He spent many hours with the king in his study, and he wouldn’t let my father in.”

Valeera was sure the old worgen loved that. 

“Maybe because the Night Watch of Duskwood is all Legion?”

 _“What?”_ Valeera stared at Garona, who shrugged.

“While you were taking a vacation, some of us were working,” the assassin said coolly. “I went to Duskwood and learned a few things.”

“Sanguinar,” Jorach cut in, before Valeera could take too much offense. “You’re good at ciphers, aren’t you?” 

Still glaring at Garona, she said, “I’ve been known to read SI:7 missives in my spare time.” Varian had ordered Shaw to teach her that, at least, a few years ago. 

“Good.” He slid the letter over to her. “None of us can make heads or tails of this. Decrypt it and report what you learn.” 

In general, Valeera didn’t take orders from anyone who wasn’t a Wrynn. But the Uncrowned put gold in her coffers too, and when the order came from Ravenholdt himself, she couldn’t exactly refuse. 

“It’ll take some time,” she said, tucking the letter into her sleeve. “SI:7 codes aren’t exactly easy to break.” 

Jorach smiled grimly. “I know. Take your time but work fast.” 

Well that was a contradiction.

  
  


The cipher was not one Valeera had seen before, and with SI:7 compromised, she couldn’t exactly waltz over and ask them. She almost wished she hadn’t deciphered it at all.

_Shaw was not Shaw._

“A dreadlord?” Tess Greymane looked skeptical. 

“A dreadlord,” Valeera confirmed. Her stomach was in knots. The last time she had seen him… SI:7 had been dispatched to Broken Shore around the same time that the Alliance and Horde invaded it. The Shaw she had spoken to in Stormwind… had that been…?

How could she not have noticed?

“We have to find him. The real Shaw.” The fake Shaw was whispering in Anduin’s ear, trying to break the ceasefire, possibly even… What if he hurt Anduin? And…

What if he’d killed Shaw? 

She swallowed around the lump in her throat. “We have to dispatch Shadows. Shaw disappeared in the Broken Isles. If he’s…”

Jorach nodded. “If he’s alive, he’ll be there.”

Shaw was a fucking asshole. Valeera had always thought so, no matter Varian’s high opinion of him. But she hadn’t… she didn’t want him _dead._

* * *

Before Shaw left for the Broken Shore, Valeera had seen him at Lion’s Rest. He’d stopped, of course, before the tomb of Queen Tiffin, but she didn’t think he’d really come for her. He didn’t stay long before moving on, to a large tombstone bearing an insignia she did not recognize and the name _Shaw._ He didn’t linger there either; he seemed to be walking a memorized path, almost like a ritual. She wondered if he did it before every major campaign. 

He stopped at last in the western half of the cemetery, where commoners were buried and, further down, criminals whose families could afford it. He stayed at that grave a long time, and several times Valeera caught the faintest murmured words, though she was unable to make them out. The grave bore a small headstone, like those of poorer people and convicts, but it was well made, on par with the craftsmanship on the wealthy eastern side. 

He’d been kneeling, and when he finally stood it was with the popping of joints and a muffled groan. When he was gone, Valeera sneaked over, curious as to whom he’d been visiting. Shaw was a city boy, lauded and titled and empowered by the crown. Who could he have known that would be buried on the poor side of Lion’s Rest?

Not an SI:7 agent. Those fuckers made bank.

All she found on the headstone were initials. _EVC._ Humans loved using their initials ﹣ Valeera had lamented the fact more than once, particularly in her reconnaissance work ﹣ but in death were rarely identified as such. In death, men and women who’d gone by their initials in life suddenly reclaimed their full names and all their titles, no matter how large and expensive the resulting tombstone. But criminals often had no money, or families to pay for headstones. _Criminals_ were labelled by their initials in death, if they were lucky enough to have a headstone at all. 

_EVC..._

She wondered who EVC had been, and what they meant to a man like Shaw. 

* * *

“Any plans tonight?” Valeera asked conversationally.

Shaw and his perpetual frown said nothing. 

“No lover in the city?” she pressed. 

“Hmm.” 

Valeera knew he didn’t want to be working with her ﹣ and the feeling was mutual ﹣ but he could have been a bit more cordial. If Varian hadn’t absolutely needed the both of them on this, he wouldn’t have requested Shaw bring her along. 

“It’s Valentine’s Day,” she tried again. “Love is in the air, and all that shit.”

Shaw rolled his eyes. Finally, a reaction; she could have sworn she’d been talking to the wall. “All that shit,” he repeated. “Hmm.” And then he was silent again. 

She huffed. “Shaw. We’re stuck together for at least the next few hours. Could you just try and remove the stick from your ass until we’re done?”

“Excuse me?” 

He looked so absolutely affronted she nearly laughed. But this was Shaw ﹣ he probably took laughter as a sign of attack. 

“Nevermind.” Scowling, she returned to her ciphers. She didn’t like this one ﹣ it used _A Treatise on Strategy_ for its code, and the book was so dry and dull it made her eyes water. She couldn’t wait to be done with it so she could chuck the book out a window. 

It was quiet in Shaw’s office. SI:7 didn’t exactly hold office hours, but Renzik had gone home for the night and even Mixilpixil, who until tonight Valeera didn’t think ever left, called upstairs about an hour ago wishing Shaw a good evening. Except for the night man, Valeera didn’t think anyone else was here.

“I don’t.” 

The words sounded loud in the near silence of the office, and were so unexpected that Valeera jumped. Her hand twitched, causing her pen to leak and making her curse. 

“Excuse me?” she asked, once she’d wiped off the ink.

Shaw wasn’t looking at her, and he didn’t answer for so long that Valeera thought she’d misheard, that he hadn’t spoken at all. 

“I don’t,” he repeated, “celebrate Valentine’s Day.”

“Oh.” That shocked her not at all. 

“Too busy,” he said to his missive. “Never really saw the point.” 

He was trying, at least. And she _had_ asked him to take the stick out of his ass, so she couldn’t very well ignore him. 

“You’re not missing much.” Varian had asked her to come to his chambers that night, but that wasn’t usual. Valentine’s Day was for couples, and that wasn’t… they weren’t… She didn’t think it applied to them. 

“You would know, I expect.”

“Not really.” She frowned at her writing, scratched out a letter and wrote a different one. 

“No?” He kept his tone even, as if he didn’t know where she would be sleeping that night. As if he didn’t know everything that happened in this city. 

“No.” She turned a page. “I’m not one for all that romantic shit.”

“Ah.” 

For several moments there was nothing but the scrawling of words and the flicking of pages. This set of missives was doubly encrypted, which Shaw called a _precaution_ and Valeera called a _headache._ “Do you really need this level of paranoia?” she’d asked once.

“No one’s broken it yet,” he’d told her.

When she’d been a little girl in Quel’Thalas, Valentine’s Day had been a weeklong affair. There had been candies and exorbitant perfumes for sale at every shop, and dozens of pop up flower stalls selling everything from peacebloom bouquets to single, perfect chromatic lilies. Flowers had always been a large part of the holiday, elves being what they were, and Valeera remembered every year a page would arrive with the biggest, most ostentatious display of azerothian roses for her mother. Valeera had learned to hate azerothian roses, which died quickly and spread the stench of decay everywhere. 

“That sounds absolutely horrible,” said Shaw, and Valeera started. She hadn’t realized she’d been talking out loud. 

“The roses?”

“All of it.” He took a moment to fiddle with the nib of his pen, which had been scratching loudly when he wrote. “I would hate for this ridiculous holiday to carry on for a week.” 

“I think the sin’dorei holiday is based on an old fertility festival,” Valeera mused. “A carryover from Old Kalimdor, I guess.”

“There’s a story that ours started in defiance of an old king,” Shaw said conversationally. “A king outlawed certain types of marriages and a priest performed the marriages anyway.”

“That sounds like a Gilnean king.”

“I think the legend says it _was_ a Gilnean king.”

“What sorts of marriages?”

The spymaster paused. “Depends on who tells the story,” he said after a moment. “Different kingdoms outlawed different things at different times. Marriage between classes was forbidden for a long time in Stormwind, until King Llane.” He shrugged. “Stromgarde would revoke citizenship for those who married outside it. Homosexual marriages were banned in many kingdoms.”

“Most of those laws have been repealed. Or the kingdom is gone.”

“Most,” Shaw agreed. “But not all.” He frowned. “I suppose that’s why the holiday is still so popular.” 

The way in which he spoke those words gave Valeera pause. “I suppose.” Did Shaw fall into one of those categories? Did he refuse to indulge in the silly occasion as some sort of protest? Or was he merely bitter from a past relationship, and the thought of a holiday dedicated to love made him angry? 

Come to think of it… Valeera had never known Shaw to associate with… well, _anyone._ Not in that way. She only ever saw him in the company of Varian and his council, or the members of SI:7. 

“I stopped caring when I was a boy,” the man said, unbidden. “Between my training and… It was difficult, to think about relationships at all.” 

Valeera stared at him. Was he… actually talking about himself? Acknowledging that he had a life outside of SI:7 and the crown? 

She pinched herself. It hurt. 

Not a dream then. 

And then he frowned, and resumed his scribbling. “Not all of us are so fortunate to have another bed to hop into,” he muttered, eyes flicking to her briefly. 

What an asshole. 

“I don’t suppose anyone would want you in their bed anyway,” Valeera sniffed. 

She didn’t know why she’d tried to talk to him. 

* * *

Valeera hadn’t meant to eavesdrop. Truthfully, she’d just come to bid Varian goodbye before she left. It was unnecessary, really ﹣ they’d said their goodbyes last night, in bed, and she’d been up before the dawn to return to her own chambers and pack. But she’d run into Anduin on the way, and it didn’t feel right to depart just yet. Varian was always the last person she spoke to, before she left the Keep. 

Call it superstition.

But he wasn’t in the War Room, and Valeera scowled. Her time with Anduin had caused her to miss the end of the meeting, and subsequently Varian’s exit. She wracked her brain, trying to decide where he’d be now. It was too early for lunch, and far too late to hear petitioners. 

“﹣bear looking into?”

“Rest assured, sir, it has been.” 

There was a growl, and the delicate, indifferent sounds of the gathering of papers. “I can _smell_ her on him, Shaw! Doesn’t it concern you that a _blood elf_ is in bed with the King of Stormwind?”

Valeera froze. 

“Of course it does,” Shaw replied mildly. He seemed not to be giving the other king his full attention, distracted by something. “That’s why it’s been looked into.” 

She shouldn’t care. How many times had she heard the rumors? How many times had she sat to one end of a room, watched a suspicious noble whisper to another thinking she couldn’t hear them? How many times had _Shaw himself_ pried into her affairs with Varian? She should be used to it by now. 

But this was Greymane. Not just a petty noble but another king, another leader in the Alliance. A man who lived in Stormwind Keep, and who, with his worgen senses, was much more privy to her relationship with the High King than Valeera especially wanted him to be. The man had much more power than any of the nobility and, if he could get Shaw on his side, could stand to make her life extremely difficult. The spymaster had never liked her, after all. 

They could get her thrown out of Stormwind Keep. Out of the city, even. 

Valeera shuddered. 

She knew she shouldn’t listen. But what sort of king’s spy would she be if she willingly ignored information pertaining directly to the king himself? 

“Her people abandoned us after the Third War,” Greymane was saying. “They _left_ the Alliance, and yet one of them is allowed full run of the city, its keep, and the king’s bedroom? Spymaster, surely you of all people understand how that must look.”

Shaw said nothing, and for a moment, the quiet rustling of papers was the only sound. The king’s voice dropped. 

“I find it highly suspect, spymaster. I am concerned that she will force His Majesty’s hand in his sympathy towards the Horde.”

“I think you’ll find the bombing of Theramore shifted any _sympathies_ His Majesty may have had, in that regard.” 

There was an uncomfortable silence. Finally, Greymane cleared his throat. 

“I would like to ask for an investigation to be conducted on the blood elf. I do not trust her, and I am wary of any enchantments she may have placed on King Wrynn. Her kind are known﹣”

“SI:7 conducts investigations on the king’s orders, sir.” 

“I _am_ ﹣”

“Stormwind’s king, sir. Not Gilneas.” Shaw’s voice was controlled, but Valeera could sense a prickle of irritation beneath it. “I personally have looked into Ms Sanguinar and found her to pose no threat to the security of King Varian, Prince Anduin, or the city of Stormwind.”

“You work for the _Alliance,_ spymaster. A blood elf in the king’s bed poses a great risk to the﹣”

“I work for the crown, actually. And I’m afraid I do not take orders from anyone other than His Majesty King Wrynn.” There was a scraping of chairs, one abrupt and the other softer. “I am more than happy to listen to any concerns you may have, and if the subject bears worth looking into it, I will do it. But I do not appreciate the insinuation that I have not done my due diligence.” 

A beat. Valeera imagined the scene between the two men right now, Greymane an entire head taller than Shaw and drawn up to his full height, jaw clenched and lip curled; and Shaw’s unmovable poker face, the sharp spark in his bottle green eyes. 

“SI:7 _has_ investigated Ms Sanguinar, sir. And we have deemed her a non-issue.” Footsteps now. “Perhaps your own Gilnean intelligence wishes to conduct their own investigation, and I would advise, if so, that they be discreet. You may also confer with His Majesty on the matter, but I would suggest against doing so. His Majesty has a volatile temper, as I’m sure you’re aware.” 

Valeera melted into the shadows just as the handle turned, Shaw appearing in the doorway. 

“After you, sir.” 

Greymane stared, a prominent vein throbbing at his temple. Valeera wondered if in the man’s entire life he had ever been told _no_ before. And then he stomped out, heavy boots clomping on the stone.

Shaw waited several moments before exiting the room as well, a file tucked under one arm. He stepped out lightly, like the roofwalker he had been, and closed the door behind him, taking great care with the handle which was known to rattle violently if shut too hard. He straightened and smoothed a hand over his fine mustache, which had begun to bristle under Greymane’s interrogation. 

And then his eyes flicked in her direction. Not _at_ her ﹣ he couldn’t see her, not with her cloak of shadows ﹣ but he seemed to know she was there. 

“I hope that answers your question,” he murmured, low and only for her. “Safe travels.” 

Valeera watched him go amid a flurry of emotions she didn’t want to examine and a handful of questions she couldn’t ask. 

* * *

She’d felt it first sitting in the Cathedral of Light, at the back and somewhat away from the parishioners. Her eyes were trained on the back of Anduin’s golden head as he sat, straightbacked now as he never was during his lessons, all focus on the archbishop and his sermon. At the time, Valeera attributed the flutter in her chest to the Light, thought she was simply moved by the archbishop and his words. 

But the feeling didn’t abet, even as the day drew on and her attention was increasingly distracted. Valeera felt a buzzing in her blood, a lightness in her heart. She felt whatever it was in the deepest recesses of her soul, like the fel and Kathra’natir and the wild magic she’d once drained from Broll, except… This wasn’t like the fel. It didn’t hurt or burn, didn’t whisper in her ear like the nathrezim or cloud her mind with terrifying, horrible thoughts. This was… 

It felt good. It felt better than good. She was warm inside, as though her body had been dormant in the darkest, coldest cave and she had only now been brought out into the daylight. A strength she didn’t know existed had settled within her muscles, comfortable and easy as though it had always been there. The persistent, gnawing ache in her soul had suddenly… _vanished._

She hadn’t felt like this since before the Scourge. 

Valeera didn’t need the intelligence briefing several days later. Standing in a corner of the room, as one of Shaw’s agents reported that the draenei had set sail and then returned from Quel’Danas, as a messenger relayed a letter from the ambassador to the Exodar… They gave her words to describe the swirling in her veins and the giddy, lightheaded, unbridled _joy_ she felt bubbling in her chest, but she didn’t need to hear them. She already knew. Had known the moment she’d felt its pull, felt the _life_ she’d been missing spark anew beneath her skin.

_The Sunwell had been restored._

  
  
  


Valeera couldn’t describe how she felt. Not to Varian, who knew her so well, or to Anduin, who’d remarked on her change in mood. She made plans immediately to return to Quel’Thalas, to see with her own eyes what her heart already knew.

“I just have to see it,” she told Varian. “I just… I have to.” 

She couldn’t explain it to him. There was no way to describe to the human king the pull of the Sunwell, the most sacred and holy site of her people. Humans didn’t have anything like it. Nothing they held in the same reverence. Valeera was _drawn_ to it, needed it like air. She hadn’t known that she’d been dying until it brought her back to life. 

Varian looked confused. He sat at the great desk in his private office, the one Valeera only entered when reporting to him as his employee. One hand clutched the quill he’d been writing with, now gone still; the other had curled into a loose fist.

“In Quel’Thalas?” he asked dumbly. 

“Yes. I’ll be leaving in the morning.” She wasn’t asking. 

“Quel’Thalas,” he repeated, and for a moment a look of panic flashed in his eyes. “You’re going to Quel’Thalas.”

“I have to. I can’t…” Valeera struggled for words. That in itself wasn’t unusual, when they spoke ﹣ she often had difficulty putting into words the way she felt around the king, and he with her. “This is something I have to do. I need you to understand.” 

Varian stood, and though he towered over her, in that moment he looked very small. He wrapped her in his strong arms, nestled his cheek into her hair. “How… how long will you be gone?”

And Valeera understood then. Varian thought she wouldn’t come back. Thought the pull of the Sunwell so strong that she was bidding him farewell. 

Her arms went around him, hands running over the substantial muscles in his back and tangling in his long hair. She relaxed into him, pressed her face to his chest, just above his heart. It was beating very fast. 

“Quel’Thalas is my homeland,” she said quietly, and felt him stiffen. His heart thudded in her ears, loud and anxious. She brought her lips up to brush over the spot through his fine shirt. 

Varian’s arms tightened around her, and his voice was barely a whisper. “Stay with me.” She felt the minute tremors of his hands on her skin. “Val, please. I… _Stay with me.”_

She wasn’t saying it right, the Sunwell’s energies addling her mind and ruining her presentation. She hugged him fiercely, holding him so tight it strained her arms and he held her back in kind, until it almost hurt to breathe. 

“Stormwind is my home,” she murmured, and it both was and wasn’t a lie. Valeera couldn’t care less for Stormwind, the stuffy city with its prejudices and accusing glares. But Varian was in Stormwind, and Varian… _You are my home._ “I’ll come back.”

His hand came to cup the back of her head, fingers gentle in her hair and his touch tender. For a moment they were back in the Crimson Ring, and Lo’Gosh was holding her as though she were some fragile, precious thing. As if she _meant_ something to him.

“I won’t be gone long,” she assured him. “I swear to you, Varian: I will _always_ come back to you.” 

They stood like that for a long time, entangled in each other’s arms, until finally the king pulled back. Pressed his lips to her forehead. When he looked at her, Valeera saw that he understood ﹣ _understood_ this was important to her, even if he didn’t understand _why._

“Do what you need to do,” he murmured. “I’ll be here when you get back.”

  
  
  


The beauty of the restored Sunwell had brought Valeera to tears. She’d joined the other pilgrims pouring in not just from Quel’Thalas, but from the shattered remains of Lordaeron, and Hillsbrad and Arathi, Dalaran and Stormwind. Received the blessing from the new Warden of the Sunwell, and wept as its holy, healing waters were trickled onto her scalp. She felt whole in a way she hadn’t since she was a little girl, and looking around, she knew she wasn’t the only one. 

But it had been somewhat of a relief when she’d shouldered her pack, made to leave. These elves ﹣ her countrymen ﹣ they weren’t her people anymore. And while the restoration of Silvermoon was pleasing to the eye and sparked a deep, unnamable emotion within her chest, its gleaming marble and gold columns and sparkling red tiles were not Stormwind’s cobbled streets and horseshoe-shaped districts. It had none of Stormwind’s quaint charms, and while no one glared at her here, while she was not refused in shops or gossiped over, it was not the city she had grown to love. 

She was happy to leave.

In the past, Valeera had always returned to her own chambers after a mission, if it was late at night or even just if she felt like it. She did not feel the need to seek Varian out and report right away. His time was precious and limited, but she never had difficulty in procuring it. But this time… she felt compelled to find him. To put to rest any worries that she would not come back. 

He was in a meeting of course. Valeera scowled at her luck ﹣ she would not interrupt something important simply to announce her return from what amounted to a vacation. She deposited her pack in her chambers and thought seriously about having a bath. She was dirty from the road, and smelled like bird from the long dragonhawk ride she’d had to take over the remains of Lordaeron. 

But in the end she was too antsy to settle herself in her grand tub, and she left, walking the length of the Keep the long way round to the kitchens, having decided to grab herself a bite to eat to soothe her rumbling stomach. And that was where Shaw found her. 

“Ms Sanguinar.” The clipped, even tones of the spymaster reached her even across the room, and she looked up from the light meal the cook had put together. Nothing terribly special, a few cold cuts and bread, a bowl of fruit, a slice of spiced honey cake, and a bottle of wine she had yet to open, but she had not eaten all day and she was ravenous. 

She swallowed. “Shaw,” she acknowledged, with a dip of her head. 

To her great surprise, the spymaster crossed the room and, to her even greater astonishment, indicated the stool beside her and asked, “May I join you?”

Valeera really wasn’t in the mood to be interrogated. 

“I don’t think I have a choice in the matter,” she said brusquely, taking another bite of warm bread smeared with soft Stormwind brie. Her eyes closed momentarily. She was rather fond of brie, and it had been impossible to obtain during her fortnight in Quel’Thalas. 

Shaw sat. “You’re back.” It was neither a question nor a judgment, and Valeera found she could not interpret the spymaster’s tone. 

“Thought I’d stay?” 

“Yes.” 

And the frankness of that statement, the lack of analysis or suspicion, startled her. She thought, with that single word, that this was the first time Shaw had given her an open, honest answer, since the very first day they’d met. She swallowed her bite of brie.

“Sorry to disappoint.” 

The cook had given her cubed watermelon, and it was very fresh, crunching noisily as she bit into it. She ate it with her fingers, which was quite common in Quel’Thalas but not so in Stormwind, and felt the spymaster’s eyes on her. 

“Why did you come back?” 

He spoke not in accusation, or even anger. He spoke almost as though he could not believe that Valeera was sitting before him, fresh from a personal trip to celebrate the most important and joyous occasion her people had known in years.

Perhaps he couldn’t.

Valeera delicately wiped her hands on a napkin, and then dabbed at her mouth. She fixed him with a hard stare. “I gave my word,” she said simply. “The king expects me to return. So I did.” 

For a human, Shaw seemed to grasp what the Sunwell meant to her and her people far easier than Varian had. He had probably seen the exodus from the Mage District, where most of the city’s quel’dorei lived. Or maybe he’d done his own research, once upon a time. He certainly knew more about the divide between blood and high elves than she’d given him credit for, so it shouldn’t surprise him that he knew of the Sunwell’s importance to her people. The fact that he, like Varian, had assumed she would remain in Quel’Thalas was not something she could really fault him for. Valeera couldn’t expect him to understand that for all the Well meant to her, Varian meant a great deal more. 

He considered her then, for a long moment, as though seeing her in a new light. And then he stood and retrieved a glass from the long row of shelves along one wall. Sat. Reached forward and uncorked her wine bottle, and poured first for her and then himself. 

Raised his glass. “To the restoration of your Sunwell.” 

She stared at him. Was he mocking her? But… no. No. The look on his face was… _sincere._ It was not a look she had seen before, and it took her a moment to place. An understanding passed through them then. 

Until this moment, Shaw could not fathom why Valeera, a sin’dorei, would live in Stormwind, in the city her people blamed for abandoning them during the Scourge. Perhaps, honestly, he still couldn’t. But he knew the importance of the Sunwell to her kind, and she had just declared to him that she would put it aside for Varian. For the King of Stormwind. And _that_ was something Shaw could understand. He had given up his entire life to serve the crown and House Wrynn. By rejecting the Sunwell ﹣ by making the pilgrimage and returning from it because of a promise to the king ﹣ Valeera was doing the same thing. 

“Thank you,” she told him, stunned and grateful. She raised her own glass. “To the king.”

* * *

“Are you ready to go home?”

The question took him by surprise and he jumped. Valeera frowned. Shaw had always been able to hear her coming, no matter how quiet her steps. 

“Yes,” he said quietly. He’d done a good job hiding it, when Taoshi had broken him out of Felsoul Hold, and to the untrained eye he was unchanged by his imprisonment there. Killing the dreadlord who’d worn his face, informing King Anduin, even meeting with the Uncrowned and issuing an immediate recall of the agents posted to the Horde capitals ﹣ these tasks he carried out easily, routinely. He didn't seem fazed, on the outside. But Valeera knew better. She’d spent ten years with the man, learning his tells. She could see the tiny lines at the corner of his mouth from clenching his jaw, the almost imperceptible tenseness to his shoulders. He twitched at small noises, and his bottle green eyes swept the room more often than necessary. 

Renzik saw it too. “Alright boss,” he said, not unkindly. “Let me pop up to the surface and see about getting a mage to portal us home.” 

Shaw nodded, just a single incline of his head. “Please.” 

Valeera had never heard the man say _please._ She exchanged a look with the goblin. 

“We’ll wait in one of the alcoves,” she told the Shiv, meaning one of the shops that hid entrance to the Uncrowned base. She preferred the cheese shop and knew the goblin knew that, simply because it was quieter. It sat too close to the wide open city square for the liking of most operatives. 

Shaw said nothing on the walk, did not even nod to Christi Stockton as they emerged from the secret door in the back room. Stockton, for her part, did not take offense, or even really notice. She was used to the silent Uncrowned comings and goings. 

The spymaster was more uneasy out in the open. Valeera placed a gentle hand on his arm to stop him from exiting to the main shop. 

“A goblin will be arriving shortly,” she told the wineseller. “Please send him and his companion straight back.”

“Of course, ma’am.” 

  
  
  


Valeera held her tongue for eight days. Then she slipped over to SI:7, tapping her thumb to her nose at the guards, and after an impatient wait that seemed to drag forever, was given the signal to enter. She found Renzik at his desk.

“Boss is upstairs,” the goblin said without preamble. It was worrying that he guessed so easily the reason as to her visit. “I don’t know what you’ll say to him that none of us hasn’t tried already,” he warned. “Even the king couldn’t get him to take a day off.” 

“Is he really that bad?”

Renzik shrugged. “It’s Shaw. He’s as easy to read as a brick wall.” 

“And what did you read?”

Renzik wasn’t her biggest fan either, but she thought that had more to do with the fact that she’d once insinuated he’d turn his coat for the right amount of gold. That had been a long time ago, but a goblin’s memory was long and Renzik’s grudges held. He was a typical goblin, in that regard. Perhaps only in that regard.

But Renzik was fond of Shaw. All of the man’s agents were. Shaw wasn’t like most bosses ﹣ there was nothing he would ask of his operatives that he hadn’t done himself, and his people respected him for it. If not for the almost required proverbial stick up their asses, Valeera would go so far to say that they loved him for it. 

“He’s in a bad way,” the goblin admitted. “Twitchy. Won’t eat or drink anything he doesn’t prepare himself, and sleeps in the office more than his home.” 

“Think he’ll let me in?”

“He doesn’t let anyone in.” Renzik scowled. “But you’re welcome to try.” 

She took the steps slowly, wanting to give him plenty of warning as to her arrival. She knocked, and when he did not answer, she tried the handle. 

It was locked. 

“Shaw. Open up.”

Silence.

“Open the door or I’ll pick the lock.” She wouldn’t ﹣ maybe once, but not now, when he was only getting used to his own freedom ﹣ but he didn’t need to know that. 

After a moment, she heard the soft scrape of chair legs, and the careful, deliberate footsteps too soft for human ears to detect. 

“It’s just Valeera,” she told the closed door. 

There was a click, and then Shaw’s face appeared in the crack. 

“I have work to do.” 

“I come from King Anduin.”

Shaw narrowed his eyes. There were dark circles, almost black, creased beneath them, and he seemed to have aged ten years. “Do you know,” he intoned, “how I can always be certain that you’re you, and not an imposter?”

“How?”

The corners of his mouth turned down. “No one else would dare invoke the name of the king.” He looked almost as though he would shut the door in her face, and Valeera was prepared to jam her boot between them to prevent it, but to her great surprise he stood aside and opened the door just wide enough for her to slip past. 

“I suppose I have to suffer this intrusion upon my privacy?” he drawled. 

“Yes.” She heard the soft click as the spymaster shut the door, and almost silent turn of the lock. His office did indeed look… _lived in._ There was an indent on the couch that had never been there before, and a rumpled undershirt discarded carelessly beneath it. His desk was a mess, papers spread all over in no coherent order. Valeera knew from past experience that poking at them would only set him on edge, and he didn’t need any more of that. A basin had been procured from somewhere and set on the small table at one end of the room, a pitcher of water beside it. 

“Shaw,” she said slowly. “May I ask you a personal question?”

He sighed tiredly. “I would rather you didn’t, but experience tells me you will.” 

What was life without needling the spymaster? 

But she felt almost bad about it as she asked, “Have you been sleeping?”

“I sleep just as well as I always have.” 

“When was the last time you went home?”

A beat. 

Going home meant leaving the safety of SI:7, meant traipsing through the streets of Old Town and any number of people, to a place rarely used with pickable locks. 

“What do you want, Ms Sanguinar?”

And now it was Valeera’s turn to sigh. She turned to face him. “Shaw,” she said quietly. “A couple months ago, you told me…” She stopped. A couple months ago she had sat in the kitchens with a bottle of wine, with a man who looked like Shaw but maybe wasn’t. He had been kind to her, as Shaw never was, and she’d agonized for weeks over whether her own grief at Varian’s death had prevented from seeing a plot to send her away from Anduin and the castle, because shouldn’t Valeera, someone who spent an inordinate amount of time with the spymaster and snooped and was suspicious by nature, have been able to suss out an imposter? Shouldn’t she, as a sin’dorei, be able to sense the taint of fel magic in a dreadlord’s disguise?

But Shaw was looking at her curiously, and she didn’t think she could take it back now. 

“You gave me a letter,” she tried again, “and told me to take a vacation. That I was no use to anyone in the state I was in. And you were right.” She resisted the urge to fold her arms over her chest; she felt… almost _emotional_ right now. “Shaw, I think you should take a few days off.”

“His Majesty﹣”

“Will be fine.” She parroted his words from that night back to him. “He has Renzik, and he has me. I will not leave him until you return.” 

The spymaster scowled. “I don’t need a vacation.”

“I thought I didn’t either,” she said gently. “But that time away did me a _world_ of good." Broll had been kind, and had not discussed Varian. He'd occupied her time with his work combating the Emerald Nightmare and merely chuckled that she still kicked in her sleep. "I don’t know if you remember… or if that was really you… But it was good advice.” She took a deep breath. “If you want someone to go with you, any of your agents would jump at the chance. They’re all worried about you.”

“They should be worried about﹣”

“Don’t you have a cabin in the Redridge Mountains?” she cut him off. “Perhaps a few days there would do you good.” 

His retort died on his lips, and were she not so concerned for him, she might have laughed out loud. He always forgot that she knew as much about him as he did about her. 

“You’re sleeping in your office, Mathias,” she said softly. “You’re not… Look. Our relationship has never been very strong. We don’t like each other. But I’m telling you, as a _person,_ that I’m worried about you. A lot of people are. It’s not weakness to admit you need some time.” 

He’d come to her, not as Spymaster Shaw of the Alliance but as a person, all those months ago and told her nearly the same thing, and it was his concern for her ﹣ his surprising, shocking concern ﹣ that had truly convinced her she was not okay. That she needed a moment to herself, away from Anduin and Stormwind. Perhaps Shaw would realize she’d flipped their positions, or if it… if it hadn’t been him, perhaps he’d understand anyway. 

“Thank you, Ms Sanguinar,” said Shaw quietly. “I will take it into consideration.” He looked so tired standing there, and Valeera had to tamp down an urge to take him in her arms, either to just hold him or to force him to lie down and take a nap. 

She’d probably get stabbed in the neck if she tried. 

“I’m afraid I do have a lot of work to do,” he continued, stepping back towards the door he’d kept within arm’s length. Valeera heard the flick of a lock, and knew he was done listening to her. 

She stopped in the doorway, her body straddling the threshold, and turned back. She probably shouldn’t ask this…

“Shaw,” she said hesitantly. “What you said. After Varian died. Was… Was that really you?”

And Shaw looked at her with his tired eyes, and a soft expression came over his face. 

“Yes,” he said softly. “That was me. I was worried back then, _as a person.”_ The corner of his mouth quirked, the closest to a smile that she’d ever gotten from the man. “I will think over your words,” he promised. “Now please. I must get back to work.” 

She let him push her out, heard the quiet click of the lock for the fourth time. She supposed she’d done all she could. The rest was up to him.

* * *

Kul Tiras was colder than Stormwind, not having the benefit of the humid Stranglethorn winds or the dry, hot storms from the Burning Steppes at its borders. Valeera shivered, wishing she’d packed more warmly. It was supposedly a hot day today, but as she drew her cloak more tightly around herself she decided that that was a sick joke played on the mainlanders. Her legs were also freezing, but that couldn’t be helped.

Shaw stood opposite her on the _Wind’s Redemption,_ waiting patiently for one of his agents. In the meantime, he studied the twin maps of Kul Tiras and Zandalar, each marked with little pins denoting troops and bases and agents. He’d filled out since Felsoul Hold, and his eyes no longer held that chilly, haunted look. Some color had even returned to his cheeks, little constellations of freckles blooming across his skin, though at the moment they were washed out in the chill of the Boralus wind. 

“You want me to what.” 

“Infiltrate Dazar’alor,” he mumbled, his stare boring holes in the parchments. “I’d like an ear on the Horde’s activities with the Zandalari king, and His Majesty worries for Baine."

Oh, Valeera knew that. If it wasn’t for Anduin and his _please assist Master Shaw in any way that you can, Val_ and his _I haven’t heard from Baine in months, I worry Sylvanas Windrunner has put a stop to our communication,_ she wouldn’t even be here. 

“You would attract the least suspicion, I believe.” Shaw was muttering to himself now. “You visit Quel’Thalas twice a year with no one any wiser, and trolls think we all look alike anyway…” 

“Why not have a goblin do it?”

The look he shot her said it all. _Goblins require gold, and there is no guarantee they will devote any attention to the tauren chieftain._ “I’ve assigned most of them to the Horde’s azerite crews,” is what he told her. “An extra goblin will not attract curious onlookers, and they will actually understand the tools implemented with its use.” 

She nodded absent-mindedly, not really listening. It was _so_ fucking cold. She didn’t understand how he wasn’t shivering in his armor.

“OY!” 

Shaw’s frown deepened, but Valeera paid it no mind. She was busy imagining the cozy fire back in her room at the Snug Harbor Inn. The first thing she’d do, she decided, was pull on another pair of socks ﹣ she was already wearing two, but she couldn’t feel her toes ﹣ and her warmest pair of lounge pants, and﹣

“Mattie!”

Valeera turned her head, trying to identify the speaker. She didn’t have to wait long, as he sauntered up to them in a salt-stained greatcoat and slapped a missive on the table so hard it jostled all of Shaw’s carefully placed pins. 

Shaw made an annoyed noise deep in his throat. 

“Spymaster Shaw!” said the man brightly. “Didn’t you hear me calling you?”

The look on Shaw’s face said he had, and wished he hadn’t. “Captain Fairwind,” he droned. “I’m very busy at the moment.”

Valeera hoped very much that this was the operative Shaw had been waiting on, if only to see how tightly the man could clench his jaw before he cracked a tooth. 

“What’s this about an extension of my berthing papers?” Fairwind asked. He jabbed at Shaw’s chest with a wide grin on his face, much to Valeera’s surprise. “Are you pulling strings for me, Mattie?”

If Valeera placed an unsolicited hand on the spymaster’s person she could expect to lose it. She watched the exchange, intrigued. 

Shaw closed his eyes. “It is to our benefit that the _Middenwake_ remain available, Captain.” His voice was tight. “You are of no use to the Alliance if we cannot find you.” 

“Well, I appreciate the gesture,” the captain said. “Boralus is mighty expensive, even with Alliance gold lining my pockets.” It was then that he noticed Valeera, and his tone grew wary. He took in her cloaked form and kept his voice down, as if she were hiding and not just fucking freezing. “What’s a blood elf doing here?”

Valeera was tempted to say something ridiculous, just to see how the man would react. She had the feeling he had a sense of humor. 

“Ms Sanguinar is an agent of His Majesty the King. She is _not_ here for your harassment.”

“Your king know she’s got green eyes, mate?”

“Yes, he does.” 

Fairwind considered this for a moment before shrugging and spreading his hands. “I’m not going to pretend I know what you mainlanders get up to. I only learned recently that blood was the _bad elf_ and void is somehow the _good one_ , so I’m probably not up to date on any of your fancy Stormwind intelligence.” 

Oh, Valeera _liked_ him.

“Are you quite done, Captain Fairwind?” Shaw was meticulously resetting the upset pins. 

Fairwind was silent a moment, raking a hand through his long auburn hair. A grin spread over his face once more. “Nah. I came to buy you a drink, Mattie, as thanks for my papers. I’ll even buy your new lady friend one too, as long as nobody buys anything more than twenty silver.”

“She’s not my﹣” Shaw shut his mouth, and frowned hard. “It’s two in the afternoon, captain.”

“So?”

“No one drinks at two in the afternoon.” 

And that was rich, coming from Varian Wrynn’s personal spy. Valeera couldn’t help but laugh at that, earning her a grin from the captain and a glare from Shaw. 

“Ms Sanguinar seems to think that’s bollocks, mate. It’s two against one.” 

Shaw grit his teeth. “I will find you if I have need of you, captain.”

Fairwind laughed, not at all affected by Shaw’s bite, and picked up the sheaf of documents again. “Alright, Mattie. See you around.”

Valeera watched his retreating back and waited until he was out of earshot before turning to Shaw. “Mattie?” she asked, with a quirk of her lips.

Shaw’s scowl would have cowed a lesser woman. “An irritating nickname.”

“Who is he?”

“An annoyance.” He finished setting up his pins, more or less how they were. “He thinks he’s being cute.”

“Is he?”

“What.”

“Being cute.” 

Shaw didn’t answer her, resuming instead his muttering about this base or that agent. But Valeera noted, as he began again speaking of her infiltrating Dazar’alor, that the tips of his ears had gone extremely red. 

The spymaster never had taken that vacation like she’d told him, before setting sail for Boralus. But perhaps this Captain Fairwind was another sort of vacation all on his own.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I tweaked the Legion rogue story to fit here, mainly for the very selfish reason that I'd already written the first scene when I started doing the campaign on my rogue and I didn't want to rewrite it. (Don't think too much on that.) Valeera takes the place of the player for some of the parts here, and there is no Raven's Eye because I didn't like it.


	5. Umbric

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Valeera employs some stress relief.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Y'all ever read The Subtle Knife, by Philip Pullman? I imagine void portals work a lot like the Subtle Knife, and in case you haven't read it, here's a description from the His Dark Materials wiki: _The blade had an edge so keen that the point that could not be perceived with the naked eye, and had the ability to "feel" the gaps in the fabric of multiverse and use them to cut through the fabric, thus opening portals into alternate universes._
> 
> This chapter is rated M. Or at least a very strong T+

Sex was something Valeera enjoyed. It wasn’t necessarily about the feelings involved or even any of the sappy romance she detested. She hadn’t had feelings for Bloodeye when she’d been a gladiator in the Crimson Ring. With Bloodeye it had been about stress relief, about forgetting the world and the shitty people in it, getting away even for a little while from the carnage and the sounds of the Ring. 

She and Broll had slept together a handful of times, during and after the Ring. Broll made her feel safe, did not object when she was overwhelmed and held her when it became too much. He understood. They’d once been gladiators, bound to each other in blood, sweat, and tears, and while Valeera could no longer take out her grief and rage with her daggers buried in another’s skin, she could find solace in Broll and his gentle embrace. But she’d never had feelings for Broll either.

She’d had feelings for Varian. Powerful, protective urges right from the start, and Valeera didn’t know when they’d turned into something more. When the sex was no longer sex and when they didn’t have sex at all but instead made love. Varian was passionate and powerful and so very sweet, did not protest when she demanded control and gave everything she needed ﹣ even things she didn’t know she needed ﹣ willingly and eagerly. Varian made sure she enjoyed herself, and was never rough unless she asked. No one had ever treated her like Varian had. 

Umbric wasn’t Varian. He wasn’t Varian and never could be, but Valeera didn’t want another Varian. She didn’t think she was ready, would ever be ready, for someone who cared so deeply for her again, who treated her like she was precious and special. Umbric wasn’t Varian, but that was alright. He was attractive and pent up, and she knew she was attractive and pent up, and didn’t everyone need some time away from the war? 

* * *

“You want me to what?”

“Infiltrate Dazar’alor,” Shaw murmured. “You’ll be less conspicuous, and probably only Baine knows who you are.” The entire reason Anduin had sent her to Shaw in the freezing cold of Kul Tiras was to keep tabs on Baine. Of course Shaw would have an extra assignment for her in exchange for passage to Zandalar. 

He balked as a ship’s captain swaggered up, teasing him as no one else dared to do, and Valeera’s eyebrows arched. She was filing the information away for later when another man approached them, dressed head to toe in gold-trimmed indigo robes and positively _radiating_ unsettling energy. 

“Ah, Magister Umbric.” Shaw barely glanced up from his map. “Good of you to show up.” He pointed to a white pin on the Zandalar map. “I’d like you to take a team here, to Xibala. I have a force of Dark Irons just slightly south﹣” he indicated another white pin “﹣but they report that these hills have significant magical reserves that have been reacting to the azerite harvested by Horde goblins.” 

“Why not send gnomes?” Umbric questioned. “You know I’m not technologically inclined.” 

The spymaster shook his head. “You don’t have to be. My sources tell me the magicks in the area interfere with gnomish technology, and I would feel better having someone of your… caliber handling the matter.” 

Gnomish technology was known to be more delicate than goblins’, with calculations that relied on conditions to be _just so._ The Dark Irons, used to working under extreme conditions, had developed a different sort of tech, but the energy in the area must be extraordinary to throw off even their machines. 

“You’ll be sailing with Ms Sanguinar﹣” Shaw gestured to her absent-mindedly “﹣and getting her as close as you can to the capital. Ms Sanguinar, if you run into trouble, you are to find Umbric and have him portal you back to Boralus.” 

“Just how many tasks are you assigning me?” There was an edge to Umbric’s voice that had more to do with his elven pride than with her, Valeera thought. 

“As many as it takes.” Shaw’s glance flitted to the elf, briefly, brows furrowing. “Problem, magister?”

Umbric didn’t challenge him further. “No. No problem at all.” For the first time he turned to Valeera, and arched a delicate violet-black eyebrow. He stared hard at her eyes. 

“And this is…?”

“Ms Sanguinar is an agent of His Majesty King Anduin,” Shaw said tersely. “She will be carrying out a separate assignment at His Majesty’s request.” 

“I see.” 

Whether it was because Shaw stood at her side, or because he referred to her as _Ms Sanguinar,_ Valeera didn’t know but Umbric didn’t object to working with a blood elf. Perhaps, as one of the volatile and suspect void elves, newly inducted into the Alliance themselves, he didn’t think he could.

“Well. Pleased to make your acquaintance, Ms Sanguinar.” Umbric gave her a short little bow, bending at the waist and inclining his body forward a few degrees in the Thalassian style, and Valeera blinked. No one had bowed to her since she was a little girl, still living with her father. 

Shaw took no notice, muttering to himself. He stroked his mustache and then added a blue pin to his map of Zandalar, just above Xibala.

“Is that all?” Umbric was speaking to the spymaster now. 

But when Shaw spoke, it was to Valeera. “Send your reports through Xibala.” 

* * *

Valeera had been to many places in her life, she had few fonder memories than those of Feralas. With its abundant flora and vicious fauna, crumbling ruins, and the gorgeous mountain views, Zandalar was quite a lot like Feralas, and Valeera felt almost at ease there. 

It was too fucking hot, but she couldn’t really do anything about that. She was better dressed for the tropical climate than she had been in Boralus, at any rate. 

Umbric, though, was sweating. “Why is everywhere on this Sunwell-forsaken continent a furnace?” he grumbled. 

_Sunwell-forsaken._ Now there was a curse she hadn’t heard in a long time. 

Umbric stepped carefully over an exposed tree root and peered through the foliage. “This is as close as I can get you, Ms Sanguinar. They have wards around the city; we’d be found immediately.” 

“Here is close enough.” She pulled back a large, flat leaf to take her own look, then let it fall back into place. She had changed on the ship, put aside her dark, thick woolen pants and tidespray linen cloak in exchange for the red and gold robes of Silvermoon. No one would ever question one blood elf alchemist, and her own sources told her there was an alchemy lab in the heart of the city, very close to the Great Seal and its war room. She carefully tied back her long hair ﹣ it didn’t have to be perfect, not with the humidity on the island, but it did have to be neat, and she checked her appearance in the small hand mirror she’d packed in her bag. 

That in itself wasn’t unusual either. Everyone knew the sin’dorei were vain, ridiculous creatures. Umbric watched her apply her makeup, dabbing ruby lipstick to her lips and sweeping manashadow along her eyelids. Valeera didn’t like makeup but she knew of very few sin’dorei women who didn’t wear any. 

“Why didn’t you do that on the ship?” he asked curiously. 

“The ship was cool,” she explained, “and makeup sits differently on hot, perspiring skin. I’ll be sneaking into the city in the middle of the day; I can’t look like I’ve just portalled in from Silvermoon.” 

“You know your stuff.” He sounded impressed. 

“I’ve been around.” Satisfied, she tucked the little mirror back into her pack and shouldered the bag. She had smoke bombs in a hidden pocket at her waist, knives tucked into her boots, sleeves, and belt, and three small vials of poison hidden in her brassiere. She was posing as an alchemist and had empty vials, handfuls of strange Zandalari herbs, and even poison in her pack, but she always kept a vial on her person. It wasn’t a good idea to keep coated knives close to the skin, which unfortunately they had to be in the midriff-bearing ensemble she’d chosen. She didn’t exactly think the jungle would allow for the long-sleeved, covered look she normally preferred.

“It suits you.”

“Mm.” She adjusted the pack on her shoulder, did a few checks in her head. Shaw didn’t have a very good map of the city, and that had been one of his special, additional assignments. She thought that from here, she’d cross the river and head north into Dazar’alor. She would actually have to make an appearance in the alchemists’ hall, but that was low on her priority list right now. Get in, locate the hall, locate the Great Seal, and she would go from there.

“Will I have to check in with you?” Umbric was asking. “Here seems to be﹣”

“If I need something, I will find you.”

“Are you sure? It’s a long way to﹣”

“I can find my way to Xibala,” she said shortly. “Get out of here before you’re spotted.” 

* * *

Dazar’alor was a _very_ large city, and the relief Valeera felt when she slunk into Xibala four days later was palpable. Umbric’s ren'dorei had set up a small camp, a handful of tents to protect their own sensitive equipment and a small campfire. It was very rustic, and entirely unelflike.

“We’ve had to learn to live without the ostentacity of Silvermoon,” said one of the ren’dorei, when she’d remarked on it. Valeera didn’t have time to ponder that; she’d finally found Baine and he’d even seemed unharmed, and she wanted her report to reach Anduin as soon as possible. She hadn’t dared approach the tauren ﹣ Baine couldn’t know she was in the city ﹣ but she had seen him, watched him speak with the Zandalari princess and the Blightcaller, and that had been enough for her.

Anduin would be so relieved.

“Where is Umbric?” she asked.

And the void elf raised her eyebrow. “ _Magister_ Umbric is not here,” she sniffed. “He’ll be back shortly.” 

_Magister_ Umbric. Well. From what Valeera had heard, she supposed their titles were the only thing from their old lives the ren’dorei could still claim, but it didn’t mean she had to use them. She had enough scraping and bowing to do to the non-void elves. 

As if on cue, a strange, eerie noise cut through the sounds of the jungle. Valeera’s ears twitched. Mage portals sounded like rushing water, and she was used to them, but void portals… the _tears in reality,_ as the ren’dorei called them… they sounded like ripping fabric, and from them poured a strange, all-encompassing silence that set her teeth on edge. Umbric had assured her, when he’d portalled her outside the city a week prior, that void portals were perfectly safe, but they made her uneasy. She’d take the nausea from a mage portal any day. 

“You seem to use your void portals very often,” she commented, after Umbric had brought her back to his tent. It wasn’t a large structure, being in fact the same size as all his men’s, but he had it to himself, which seemed not to be the norm. Inside was a low table and several cushions, a bedroll, and a stack of journals which she assumed to be his research. From their short time on the ship, she’d gathered that at any given moment, Umbric was involved in no less than a dozen projects, very few of which he wanted to share with her, and fewer that she understood. 

“Tears in reality are not nearly as taxing on one’s energies as a standard mage portal,” Umbric replied, conjuring a tray of assorted foods and tea. “One isn’t creating their own pathway through space-time, simply making use of a pull in the fabric that is already there.”

“Oh?” She eyed the food, spying mana buns with thick swirls of cinnamon and cream icing. Umbric saw her looking and used a napkin to extract one from its brethren, placing it on the table near her. 

“Forgive me, I haven’t eaten all morning. Eat, if you’re hungry.” He separated one for himself, took a large bite, chewed, and swallowed; and then continued on as though he hadn’t interrupted himself. “Reality is full of small tears. You rogues make use of them yourselves, with your cloak of shadows and stealth. What _I_ do, however, is to widen that tear until I can pass through it, and then find the corresponding tear on the other side to take me where I want to go.” 

“Like a door,” Valeera supplied, and Umbric nodded.

“Exactly. This is why I don’t need to have been to a place before I portal there.” 

Valeera only had a vague understanding of the intricacies of arcane magic, hardly more than any other elf. She understood portals not at all, but Umbric’s words gave some clarity to the subject, and answered the longstanding question of why she sometimes had to seek out more than one mage to take her where she needed to go. 

The magister liked to hear himself talk, like a lot of elves, and while his voice wasn’t exactly unpleasant to Valeera’s ears, she hadn’t come here for that. She indulged him as she wrote two short notes, one for Shaw and one for Anduin, and then cut him off.

“I need these delivered to Boralus.” Valeera pressed the end of her dagger ﹣ the one she’d received during her days in the Crimson Ring ﹣ into the soft sealing wax. “See that they both go to Shaw, and _only_ Shaw. If he’s not available, you will wait.” 

Umbric frowned. “I don’t take orders from you.”

“No, but you take them from Shaw. If memory serves, his orders were to deliver any messages through you.” She fixed him with a withering look. “And no idiot gives a message for Shaw to just anyone.” 

He took the letters, a look she couldn’t read on his face, taking great care not to touch her hand as he did.

* * *

Valeera was tired the next time she made her way to Xibala, and it was very late. The ren’dorei battlemages didn’t see her as she slipped into camp ﹣ she would have to say something to Umbric about his security. She considered knocking, or announcing herself somehow, as she approached Umbric’s tent. He seemed to have already gone to bed ﹣ and it _was_ after midnight. But Valeera outranked Umbric, and by a lot, and she’d never had a habit of _knocking_ in the first place so she didn’t. She unpinned the flap without so much as a rustle and slipped inside. 

Inside was much the same as before, save for the remains of a mostly uneaten dinner at the table and the copious notes scattered over its surface. Umbric was slumbering in the corner, and Valeera took her time. It had taken longer to make her way to Xibala in the dark and she was hungry. She helped herself to the man’s dinner as she perused his notes.

Umbric wrote in Thalassian, and seemed to require the aid of a Common primer for his reports to Shaw. His personal findings were many, and he'd apparently had a very productive day. Valeera took in quite detailed drawings of crystals, crossed out and rewritten magical formulae, and in the margins of many of the pages were questions and scribbled recipes. _Ravasaur blood?,_ Umbric had written, and _properties of star moss!_ and a long list of carefully copied Zandali symbols. 

When she’d had her fill, Valeera replaced the pages exactly as they had been and walked on soft feet over to the sleeping magister. He’d thrown off the blanket due to the heat, but in the attempt to preserve some modesty still wore a thin sleeping shirt and pants. Umbric had a posh Silvermoon accent and she wondered if his propriety in sleep was the result of a privileged upbringing. All of the wealthy elite she’d known had always been a little prudish. 

His face was unlined and he wore his hair short in the style of young elven men; but those in mourning also cut their hair, Valeera knew. Her father had, after the deaths of her mother and brothers. Umbric didn’t _look_ terribly old. She estimated him to be in his early first century, if that. In sleep, with his smooth violet skin and leanly muscled arms and legs, he looked almost like one of the many statues that dotted Silvermoon, monuments to old kings and Grand Magisters and those they’d lost to the Scourge. His shirt had ridden up as he slept, and Valeera’s eyes were drawn to the vee of his hips, exposed by the low riding sleep pants, and the line of dark hair that ran from his navel and extended beneath his pants. He wasn’t shaved, as an orc was, nor was he especially hairy in the way of the kaldorei or humans. There wasn’t a lot of it but it looked… _soft,_ and she wondered what it would feel like to run her fingers through it. 

She started. Where had _that_ come from? 

Well. It _had_ been a while since she’d had someone in her bed. 

Scowling, Valeera placed her boot right on that distracting trail of hair, and shoved. 

“By the Sunw﹣ what the _fuck?!”_

Umbric was awake in an instant. Apparently someone skulking about not three feet from him he could sleep through, but a little light pressure on his abdomen was a step too far. She got an elbow to the shin for her trouble, and she hastily jerked her leg back.

“Who the﹣ how the fuck did you get in here?” the magister demanded. 

“I don’t wait for permission,” Valeera grumbled, rubbing her shin. 

“There are _wards_ ﹣”

“That’s nice.” A gnomish magic dampening device had bent them enough for her to sneak in, though they weren’t working at their full capacity and she _had_ suffered an unpleasant stinging sensation as his magic attempted to keep her out. She supposed if she weren’t an elf and therefore somewhat magic-resistant, she probably would have been burned. 

Umbric stared at her with wide, furious eyes, breathing entirely too hard for someone who had been barely nudged in the stomach. 

“I need to pass along something to Shaw.”

“Pass a﹣ it’s the middle of the night!”

“Information doesn’t sleep.” When she was sure he was awake, she scrabbled for a magelight and settled herself at his table. One of the advantages to being an elf, and magically inclined whether she was a mage or not, meant always having a convenient light source. 

“Put that out,” Umbric snapped. “I was _sleeping.”_

She ignored him and scribbled out a ciphered message from memory. The trek from the city had taken over two hours, and she’d had plenty of time to encrypt it in her mind before committing it to paper. She sealed it and pressed her dagger into it before extinguishing the light. 

“Get to it.”

The magister had apparently been watching her as she wrote; he hadn’t moved. His eyebrows shot into his hair. “You cannot be serious.” 

She stared him down. 

He cursed. He cursed a lot, actually, as he hauled himself to his feet and conjured a robe directly onto his body. Valeera noted with amusement he’d forgotten shoes. He stomped over to her and snatched the letter, then threw out his opposite hand. Scowling, his fingers caught on something Valeera could not see and he _yanked,_ and there came the dreadful ripping noise and the horrible silence. He didn’t bother to close the tear, simply barged through, and though Valeera was sure he was still complaining she couldn’t hear anything. Void portals weren’t like mage portals ﹣ there was no filmy glimpse of the other side, nothing but a jarring doorway of the blackest black, unnerving in its unnaturalness. 

Soon though, Umbric was back, and with a snap of his hand the portal was gone. He waved that same hand over himself and the conjured robes fell away, and back into his bed he went. 

“What are you doing?” Valeera demanded. She’d expected him to poke his head out and snarl at her to hurry up.

“Going to sleep,” Umbric muttered, rolling on his side, away from her. He sounded more tired than he had before. “I need to be a lot more awake to get near Dazar’alor. I’m not taking you back tonight.” 

“Wha ﹣ get the fuck up!”

“Just stay,” he yawned over his shoulder. “It’s late as fuck, and I don’t think you want to trek through the Voidforsaken jungle in the dark.”

Valeera had already done that tonight and he damn well knew it. And he also seemed to know she wasn’t eager to repeat it. 

She glared at his back for several moments, weighing her options. A herd of direhorns lived in the area and many of the mothers had calves. She’d managed to avoid them on her way to Xilbala, but there was no guarantee she’d be so successful the second time ﹣ in the dark, in the jungle, with not one but two new moons. And the roads in and out of the city had increased patrols at night, with druids prowling about in animal form to take advantage of the heightened senses. If she managed to get in at all, she would definitely be spotted. 

A blanket hit her in the face before she could make a decision and when she turned, she saw Umbric settling back down on his bare bedroll.

“You can stay here,” he grumbled. “Just go to sleep.”

Valeera was filled with such a strong urge to strangle him that she actually got to her feet and took several steps forward before remembering why she should not, in fact, do that. Shooting him a venomous look, she took his stupid blanket to the far side of the tent and laid it out on the floor with more force than necessarily, viciously slapping down the edges.

He listened to her for a little while before…

“You can sleep over here, if you’d like. The ground is rather﹣”

“Fuck you.” 

She bedded down on the blanket, on her back with her head pillowed on her arm. She wasn’t about to show her back to someone like Umbric. She glared at the ceiling for a long time, and eventually the mage fell asleep, his deep, even breathing an almost soothing backdrop to the sounds of the jungle outside. 

The blanket he’d given her was cool against her skin, but he must have used it at some point if not tonight, because as Valeera fell asleep, she registered drowsily that it smelled of arcane and pure mana cologne, and something else she could not identify but which wasn’t unpleasant at all.

* * *

Valeera made sure that her trips to Xibala were made well in the daylight hours, if she could help it. It wasn’t that she didn’t trust Umbric to deliver her messages at night ﹣ he’d proven he would, if pushed. It wasn’t even that journeying to Boralus through the void portals seemed to tire him, because she didn’t care if they did or not. But if he was tired, he might get sloppy, and she had no intentions of being dumped too close to the city’s perimeter and having a halberd run through them both. She’d been stabbed enough in her life.

She was cursing as she left the city, moon high in the sky, and cursed the entire way to Xibala. _Why_ did fucking Blightcaller have to say that? Why couldn’t he have said literally anything else, why couldn’t he have said something she _already knew?_

 _We sail for Tiragarde Sound at first light,_ he’d said. 

Umbric was not asleep when she placed the gnomish device before his tent, but he was indeed surprised to see her.

“Do you have to do that?” he started irritably, but cut off the rest of his complaints when he saw her face. “What’s wrong?”

“Take me to Shaw.”

  
  
  


Shaw hadn’t been asleep either, nor was he angry that she pounded on his cabin door loud enough to wake the dead. He was on deck in an instant issuing commands, and ordered Valeera to return to Dazar’alor and her post, and Umbric to stand by. 

“You didn’t seem surprised,” Valeera groused, upon reaching the noisy, solid ground of Umbric’s tent once more. 

“The goblins have been talking,” Umbric admitted, meaning the ones along the shore. “Ironbellows showed up earlier today, said a lot of the goblin engineers had vanished. I took her to Boralus too,” he added, before Valeera could ask. 

Frida Ironbellows was the lead in the Dark Iron assault on the beach. Valeera had heard good things about her. 

“Give me a minute,” he murmured, sitting down heavily at the low table. “I’ll take you back in… I just need a moment.” He pillowed his head in his arms.

“I thought void portals weren’t as tiring as normal portals,” Valeera said sourly.

Umbric’s eyebrows creased. “They aren’t. But that doesn’t… They still take a lot of energy.” 

It was then that Valeera saw how _exhausted_ Umbric was. His skin was a paler shade of blue and his eyes were dull. He hadn’t protested at transporting her to Boralus, but looking back… it had taken longer than was usual, hadn’t it? His steps in the darkness had not been as sure, and it had taken him several minutes before he’d been able to tear open a portal within it to the port city, his outstretched hand searching more slowly than she remembered, prodding gently before moving on to the next invisible tear. 

And the _whispers…_ The longer they stood in that darkness, the longer she waited, shifting her weight from foot to foot, for him to open the portal, the louder the strange, horrible whispers became. Umbric had told her once that they belonged to the Void, and that it was not wise to spend much time with them.

If she could hear the whispers in the moments it took to slip through to Boralus, did that mean they were stronger for Umbric? The Void was _in_ him ﹣ did it call more strongly inside reality’s tears? Was it harder to resist?

Was that why the ren’dorei took ships to Zandalar, instead of walking through their portals? Was it why he’d refused to take her back to Dazar’alor the night she’d woken him?

Valeera found herself softening, despite the situation.

“Go to sleep, Umbric,” she heard herself say. And he seemed more than halfway there, his breathing evening out. “It’s fine.”

But he wasn’t asleep yet, and a tired little frown made its way onto his face. “I’ll take you back,” he insisted drowsily. “It’s only a minute.” 

Oh. He thought Valeera doubted him, perhaps thought that she thought he wasn’t taking her seriously. _“No,”_ she told him. “I’m serious. There isn’t anything I can do in Dazar’alor right now anyway.” She reached out and placed a hand on his arm. “We both should sleep. It’s fine. Shaw didn’t say to kill yourself.”

Umbric snorted, but he did not shake her off with his usual vigor. He didn’t shake her off at all. After a moment which seemed to be solely preparing himself to stand, he lurched to his feet, and took several stumbling steps towards his bedroll. He didn’t even bother to undress, just collapsed into the bedding and closed his eyes once more. 

He was asleep in minutes. 

Valeera was on edge. She couldn’t very well ask a different void elf to portal her ﹣ Umbric was the only one who knew of her mission in the city ﹣ and if she set out now she _might_ make it back by first light, but she wouldn’t have slept at all, and when dealing with the Blightcaller, it was _not_ wise to do it half asleep. 

Sighing, she dropped her pack and unlaced her boots, and curled up in the same corner she’d used the last time, when Umbric had been too tired to portal her to Dazar’alor. Eventually, sleep overtook her too. 

  
  
  


She awoke to screaming. 

Valeera was on her feet in an instant, a dagger in each hand, but they weren’t under attack. It was quiet outside. The screaming came from Umbric.

She flew to his side. He was having a nightmare, arms and legs flailing wildly. He smacked Valeera in the face twice before she managed to grab ahold of him.

“Umbric! _Umbric!”_ She tried pinning him down with little success. “Wake up! It’s fine! It’s _me!”_

His eyes snapped open but he wasn’t seeing her. Whatever he did see seemed to scare him more, and he howled, struggling to wrench away. 

“I’m not going to hurt you!” He managed to free one hand, smacked her again. “Stop fighting me! You’re _fine!”_

The more she yelled, the more he seemed to calm, until he was laying very close to her with wide, clear eyes and sucking in air like he couldn’t get enough of it. His chest heaved and there was a thin sheen of sweat on his skin. 

“You’re fine,” Valeera repeated, softer now but firmly. “You’re fine. It was just a nightmare. It wasn’t real.”

“A nightmare,” the magister parroted. 

“A nightmare.”

She almost flinched when his hand came back to her face, but he was awake now and he didn’t hit her again. He cupped her cheek, stroked along her jaw with his thumb. 

“You’re real.” He seemed to be talking to himself, but she answered him anyway. 

“I’m real,” she confirmed. “And the bruises you gave me are real too.” 

“Sorry.” 

She released him but didn’t move away. “Don’t be,” she told him. And then, as he sat up and pulled his knees to his chest, she added, “I have nightmares too.” 

Gladiator battles and the Burning Legion, bandits and Scourge, Anduin’s crumpled body trapped beneath the rubble of the Bell… Valeera was no stranger to nightmares. 

“Do you get them often?” 

And Umbric huffed, like she’d said something funny. “Side effect of being ren’dorei,” he muttered. 

Oh. 

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“No.” 

She didn’t press. She never wanted to talk about her nightmares either.

“I should take you back to Dazar’alor.” 

“What?” She shoved him. “You need _sleep,_ stupid.” 

He didn’t argue, and he didn’t try to get up. 

“Do you want me to stay?”

A beat. And then﹣

“Please.” 

She retrieved his blanket from where he’d kicked it, bundled it to make a pillow. Shoved him over and laid down beside him.

“What are you doing?”

“You’ll sleep better this way.” Valeera said the words automatically, a leftover from another life. “Are you going to keep these on?” She pulled at his damp robes. He seemed to remember their existence at the same time, and with another little huff and a flick of his hand, they vanished, replaced with a loose dry tunic and pants. 

“Would you like a set as well?” Umbric gestured to her own clothes, the red and gold robes she’d worn from the city. He knew as well as she did that Thalassian clothing often favored fashion over comfort, something that frustrated her when she was forced to don it. 

“I’m fine.” She laid down, patted the space beside her. “I don’t bite, you know.” 

“What if I asked you to?” 

For a moment Valeera couldn’t breathe. And then she frowned. Was he seriously hitting on her?

“Go to sleep.” 

  
  
  


She woke in his arms, his forehead pressed into her shoulder. She didn’t remember when it had happened ﹣ he’d woken twice more in the night, but not in the panicked, terrified way he had the first time. There had been no more screaming. Each time she’d frowned and shushed him, soothing him with a hand on his side making gentle, lazy circles, giving him something to focus on. The second time, she didn’t pull away. Had stayed close, her front to his back, wondering if he’d woken because the first time she’d rolled away from him. 

He smelled like sweat and crisp arcane magic, and the pure mana cologne he favored was stronger this close, but not unpleasant. He had probably been rich, before he’d left Silvermoon. She didn’t know any other elves besides nobles and the wealthy elite who wore liquid mana as a scent. Humans certainly didn’t do it. It was a heady, clean smell, blending well with the natural musk brought forth by sleep. She liked it. 

This close, she could feel each relaxed breath against her back, the sinewy muscles of his arms. She’d never shared a bed with a mage before. To be honest, she’d shared a bed with surprisingly few people. Umbric wasn’t broad like Broll or Bloodeye, their arms over her heavy enough to be uncomfortable; and he wasn’t brawny and robust like Varian, an unmovable lump at her back. His was a softer presence, but no less solid, no less _real._

And then he shifted, his breath ghosting over the shell of her ear, and Valeera froze. This… this felt… achingly familiar.

Varian had held her like this, before she’d left for Dalaran and the Uncrowned. The morning of her departure, he’d pulled her close and curled around her, his need pressed against the cleft of her ass, and he’d rested his head against hers, breathed softly against her sensitive ear…

Exactly the way Umbric was holding her now. 

The tears came unbidden, burning beneath her eyelids, and she struggled to keep her composure. She would _not_ break down before Umbric, even though he had done the same with her only a few hours before. She would not be vulnerable before this man. 

“Hey… what’s wrong?”

Fuck. Umbric was _awake._ His arms shook as she did, and he flattened one hand down on her chest, just above her heart, as if to steady her. He shifted behind her, no longer pressed so close. Propped himself up a little on one elbow. 

“Are you﹣? Shit. Fuck.” His voice sounded a little farther away now, but he didn’t completely withdraw. “Fuck. Are you okay?”

And her tears turned to sad little hiccupy laughs, because _that_ was definitely not Varian. Varian would never speak to her like that. 

“A bad dream,” she lied, after catching her breath. “That’s all.” 

“You said you had bad dreams.” Umbric was back, pressed against her and rubbing her arm soothingly. “Didn’t expect you to have one right after I did.” 

“Maybe I didn’t want you to be alone.” 

“Suffering for my sake? I’m flattered.” 

Valeera rolled her eyes. “Cocky bastard.” 

“You could say that.” 

She tried to shove him off but he held fast. It wasn’t quite light out, and they were in no rush to get up. Varian would have let her go, but Umbric didn’t. 

“Okay, okay,” he chuckled. “I’ll stop. Just don’t go.” He laid back down, arm draped loosely over her side and stroking the soft, exposed skin at her hip. “You were right. I did sleep well. Stay just a little longer.”

Umbric was a flirt, Valeera decided. 

  
  
  


He tore a portal in the fabric of reality in the same spot he always did, a ways away from the main road and deep within the scrub. He hadn’t touched her that morning, and Valeera wasn’t sure she’d wanted him to, but she wasn’t sure that she _didn’t…_

She shook her head to clear it. 

Umbric was watching her out of the corner of his eye as he gave the little area once over. Valeera checked her pack ﹣ she’d replenished her supply of herbs from the camp’s stores, and filched a quill as well. She liked the gnomish ink pens but they would be a dead giveaway in a Horde city. She glanced at Umbric and they both pretended not to have made eye contact. 

She’d slept in his bed. She’d felt his _cock_ press against her. In that moment, she was very glad for the Zuldazar heat, because the memory made her flush. 

“Be careful, Ms Sanguinar,” Umbric murmured as usual, hand already out to pull open a portal. Valeera realized then that Umbric didn’t even know her _name._ He knew the shape of her body and how she looked when she slept, but he didn’t know her name.

She shouldered her pack, and stubbornly didn’t look at him as she said, “You may call me Valeera.” 

  
  
  


She returned to Xibala the day after next. She _did_ have a report for Shaw, but it wasn’t especially important and nothing that couldn’t wait a few more days. She told herself she was worried about Umbric, about the toll that constant portalling was taking on him. He’d still seemed tired when she’d left him, and the memory of his face, the pure fear in his eyes, as he’d screamed himself awake troubled her. 

He was in his tent, despite the darkness having only just fallen, bent over a journal and picking at a plate of grilled catfish. He picked at most of his food, she’d noticed. 

He wasn’t surprised to see her, and in fact seemed to be _waiting_ for her. His ear flicked, briefly, in her directly as she stepped over the warded threshold, and when Valeera looked up he was facing her, smirking. 

“Couldn’t stay away?”

Her temper flared. “Oh, fuck you.” 

“That was the plan, was it not?”

“No, it wasn’t.” To spite him, she plopped herself down at the opposite side of his little table, stole his pen and a piece of parchment, and very determinedly began her report for Shaw. 

“I think you’re lying.” He was watching her, infuriating smirk still in place. Light, he was arrogant. “Why else would you have come back so soon?”

“Maybe I have important information for the king.”

“Do you?”

Valeera glared at him. He really _was_ attractive, minus the smirk. He was all smooth, clean lines and wiry muscles, with short dark hair and devious blue-tinged eyes… And he’d felt _very_ good pressed against her in his bed, when he’d pulled her against himself and her ass had ground into his very interested erection… 

She put down her pen, and he grinned. “Are you staying the night?”

“Let’s see how you do first.” 

He groaned when she kissed him, low and deep in his throat, and his hands flew to her slim waist. “Fuck,” he gasped, kissing back hungrily. _“Fuck,_ I’ve wanted to do this that first day. Since I saw you in the jungle in red and gold.” His fingers undid the knot at her sash deftly, tossing it aside. 

Valeera sucked a spot at his neck as she ripped the buttons of his robes. He even tasted good. “I wanted…” He tilted his head, and she felt more than heard the moan as she licked the tender skin of his throat. “Since that night…” She pushed the robe off his shoulders, ran her hands over the firm skin of his chest. “Didn’t take me back…”

He chuckled darkly, hands hiking up her skirt and running along the sensitive skin of her thighs. “Wanted to fuck me into submission?”

“Something like that.”

He was not gentle. Umbric kissed her hard and bruising, his fingers left small prints in her skin. He ripped her skirt as he took it off and was not sorry, and the amount of teasing he subjected her to was almost cruel. He fought her for dominance, slapped her hand away from his cock and pinned her arms above her head. 

Valeera felt on fire, and later, spent and tired and sated, she examined the bruises he’d left, a little thrill running up her spine. He eyed her from his side of the bedroll, the blanket pulled over his lap to preserve the modesty he hadn’t had a few minutes ago. 

“Alright?” 

She let her arm drop. Stretched, enjoying the soreness. Reached over for a corner of the blanket and ripped the blanket from him. 

“Well that’s rude.”

“So is this.” And she leaned over and took his overstimulated cock in her mouth.

* * *

For the rest of her time on Zandalar, until Baine was arrested and Anduin recalled her, she divided her attention between her mission in Dazar’alor, stalking the Blightcaller and Baine, and Umbric’s bed. 

She supposed her reasons weren’t so different from Umbric himself’s. They had needs and sexual frustrations, and sharing a bed had only brought them to light. She hadn’t had sex since… Light, since she’d last seen Broll, before she’d been recalled from Dalaran, and it seemed to have been a similarly long time for the magister as well. Valeera thought, even if she hadn’t crawled into his bed to chase the nightmares away, they’d have probably fucked anyway. 

And that’s what they did. They _fucked._ There were no feelings in it, nothing more complicated than carnal lust. They distracted each other from the increasingly hostile, secretive situation in Dazar’alor and the many, many missions Umbric and his ren’dorei took out on behalf of the Alliance, and fucking at the end of the day was about stress relief. About coaxing so many orgasms from the other that they couldn’t think straight, their tempers calmed, their tension melted away. 

He was a _very_ good fuck, and a night with him left her exhausted in the best way, brightened her mood, and Valeera realized, after one very rough and passionate romp, that she hadn’t felt this content and at ease since Varian’s death. 

The thought should have unsettled her, and what was unsettling was that it didn’t. 

Shaw ordered her back to Xibala two days before they stormed the city. Umbric was incessantly busy ﹣ he worked on none of his own projects, carried out none of his own research. Everything he did was for the Alliance. 

Valeera had set up her own tent while she waited for her recall. She was sure she’d be returning home with the army. It was small, barely tall enough to stand up, and Umbric’s head brushed the ceiling as he crawled inside. 

“What are you doing here?”

“Shh.” He crawled into her bedroll and buried his face in her neck. “It’s too far to mine.”

She tried not to laugh, tried instead to push him off. “Get out!”

“But I’m already in bed,” Umbric complained, holding tight. 

“Go sleep in your _own_ bed.”

“Too far,” he insisted. “And you’re not in it.”

“Too bad for you.”

“Want to have sex?”

She rolled her eyes. “I want to go to sleep.”

“You can sleep later,” Umbric coaxed, mouthing along her neck. “Sex is more fun.”

The feel of his lips on her skin drew a low moan and Valeera arched into him. Lightdamnit, it was the eve of a war! 

“If you die tomorrow because you’d rather fuck than sleep, that’s on you.”

“I accept full responsibility.” 

He was nervous, she knew. They all were. Despite the maps she’d sent along, despite uncovering every ward and spelltrap and memorizing the routes of more than a dozen guard patrols, Dazar’alor was a _massive_ city, and they’d have plenty of warning when the Alliance fleet invaded Nazmir. Shaw was taking a team into the city with Jaina Proudmoore, and the gnomes were doing _something_ with all their new azerite-enhanced technology, but… 

The last time the Alliance had staged an invasion, they had lost their king. 

Who would they lose this time?

Valeera rolled over and crashed their mouths together. They didn’t have long ﹣ in only a few hours, the ren’dorei would pack up camp and move inland to wreak psychological warfare on the Zandalari with reanimated ravasaurs. Umbric himself was to flank Jaina once she entered the city, and Valeera was to join Shaw. 

What if they went into this battle and never came out?

They kissed as if they never would again, their sex hurried and unromantic. Whenever it seemed they would slow, whenever there was a lull, they brought themselves together once more until at last they were well and truly exhausted, too spent to even pull away. They’d never gone to sleep after sex tangled in each other, but… 

Valeera didn’t want to think about _but._

  
  
  


There was shouting some time later, as the ren’dorei began waking and dismantling the camp. Someone was calling Umbric’s name.

Valeera poked him. “You’re wanted,” she mumbled.

Umbric, one arm thrown over her, didn’t move. “They can fuck off.”

“They’re going to go through your things.”

He groaned. “Let them.” He nuzzled into her shoulder. “Fuck this. Fuck Dazar’alor and the Alliance. Let it all burn.”

She shoved him. “I work for the _High King,_ idiot. He won’t be happy if he knew you said that.”

He grumbled under his breath, but Valeera only caught the words _cannon fodder._ Then he removed his arm, and stretched. 

“Fine, fine. I’m up.” 

She watched him get dressed, pulling his smallclothes on and buttoning his robes. He jammed his feet into his fine boots. 

“You coming?” he asked, his back to her.

“Have to wait for Shaw.”

A beat. 

“Right.” He took a deep breath and held it, then let it go. “Right.” 

And then he crawled out of the tent without so much as a backwards glance. He hadn’t even kissed her. She wouldn't have let him if he'd tried. 

Valeera told herself it was better this way

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope I've made it clear in past chapters that Valeera enjoys rough sex. Umbric's not being an asshole here; he just also likes rough sex.
> 
> I had to split Umbric's chapter into two because I foolishly thought I could do the whole relationship in one chapter.


	6. Surfal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Valeera realizes what's important to her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In another fic of mine, I established that sometimes people are chosen by the Light, an example being Liadrin. These people are filled with the Holy Light, to the point that it can be felt through the skin. I've decided to add Anduin as one of the Light's chosen, which is why Valeera's skin tingles when he touches her.

They didn’t die. 

Jaina Proudmoore emerged with grievous wounds and Mekkatorque was in some sort of… suspended animation ﹣ Valeera wasn’t sure and she didn’t understand it enough to ask ﹣ but the important people, the people Valeera _cared_ about, they’d survived unscathed. Anduin was safe in Stormwind, far away from the conflict, and Mathias Shaw﹣

“I can do this myself, you know.” 

Valeera raised an eyebrow, and without hesitation thrust the needle and thread over his shoulder. “Be my guest. I know you’ve got eyes in the back of your head.” 

Shaw shut up, hunched his shoulders. He had a large gash across the span of his back, deep in the meat of his shoulder.

“You’re flexible. You can reach.” 

The spymaster muttered something so incomprehensible that Valeera was sure he was just making discontented noise.

“That’s what I thought.” Valeera drew back and assessed the wound. “Are you sure you don’t want a healer?”

“They need to see to the wounded.”

“You _are_ wounded.”

He grumbled again. “Just get on with it.”

To his credit, he didn’t flinch. Valeera dabbed the area with a few drops of poison, the one she used for quiet assassinations; a major component of the viscous, colorless liquid was spineleaf, which had a numbing agent and was useful to keep on hand for moments such as these. She unfortunately could not apply much, but it seemed to help ease the needle some into his torn skin. 

“You did good,” he grunted after a moment. “I think Anduin will have you report back to Stormwind, but I want to make the case for you to stay. Keep an eye on the city.”

Valeera blinked. That was… Why would Shaw stick his neck out for her?

Who said she _wanted_ to go back to Dazar’alor? It was metaphorically (and in some places literally) on fire. The security now would be a nightmare, and with Rastakhan dead, getting into the Great Seal would be nearly impossible.

But. 

If she stayed in Zuldazar… Umbric and his ren’dorei were still posted along the beach. With the azerite still bubbling in Xibala, the Dark Irons would definitely go back to keep an eye on the goblin operations in the area, and Umbric still hadn’t studied the chaotic energies in the hills to his satisfaction…

But Umbric had left her this morning, without so much as a backwards glance. He’d seemed angry and irritated… And had he even survived? She hadn’t checked. 

Wait. Did _Shaw_ know about Umbric? 

No, Valeera said to herself. There was no way. Shaw didn’t approve of operatives fucking, and while he had no control over Valeera, he would have recalled Umbric immediately had he even suspected. 

But that didn’t matter, she decided, carefully snipping off the extra thread and assessing her work. She didn’t care where Umbric worked. She didn’t care about Umbric at all. 

“You’re good,” she told Shaw. He looked much better than the last time she’d seen him without a shirt, right after Taoshi had gotten him out of Felsoul Hold. She couldn’t see his ribs anymore, or count the knobs of his spine. Aside from the wounds sustained in Dazar’alor, he looked…

She poked him in the stomach. “Are you getting fat?”

Shaw looked affronted. “Excuse me?” He winced as he pulled his shirt over his head.

Valeera grinned. “You’ve got a little…” She poked his stomach again.

“Stop that!” He smacked her hand away. 

“You’re getting soft, Shaw.”

The glare he directed her way could have melted her face. Thank the Sunwell Shaw did not possess that ability.

She grinned at him. 

* * *

“Mattie! Thank the Tides! Someone said you got stabbed.”

Shaw did not look up, shuffling through his reports. The moment they returned to Boralus, people had come in and out of his office with memos and reports and death tolls and intelligence. Wyrmbane had ordered him to rest but Valeera could have told the man he was wasting his breath. “I did,” Shaw muttered. 

Fairwind’s eyebrows came together. He seemed to be struggling for words. Finally, he asked, “Get stabbed often, mate?”

“Hazard of the job.” 

“Well. Glad, uh, you and your lady friend are safe.” He winked at Valeera. “Not so much as a scratch, eh? Thank the Tidemother for that. You’re too pretty to die.”

Valeera didn’t know what to say to that.

Shaw looked up, scrubbed a hand over his face. “Do you _need_ something, captain?” His voice was tight.

“Oh!” Fairwind rummaged in his cavernous pockets for a moment before pulling out a scroll. “This is﹣” He held it up between two fingers and then helped himself to Shaw’s sealing wax, creating a haphazard blob on the scroll and pressing the hilt of his dagger into it “﹣for you!” The scroll dropped back down to the desk without ceremony, and Shaw stared at it. 

“Why did you…?”

“You said I can’t submit my reports without a seal,” Fairwind replied matter of factly. 

Valeera tried very hard to keep a straight face. 

Shaw rubbed at his temples. “Just… get out, Fairwind. Please, do _not_ come back.” 

Fairwind grinned. “Guess you’ll have to come to me then. I’ll buy you a drink at the Curious Octopus for the stabbing.”

Shaw groaned. “No one drinks because they've been stabbed.”

“Wyrmbane _did_ tell you to get out from behind your desk,” Valeera said helpfully.

“See? Commander’s orders! We’ll make a night out of it!”

“Good _bye,_ Captain Fairwind.” 

The captain did leave of his own accord, though not without several more minutes of heckling, and the moment he was gone, Shaw and his burning ears went back to his paperwork.

“Are you going to go?” Valeera asked.

“What.”

“To the Curious Octopus.”

Shaw scowled. “I don’t drink.”

Valeera’s delicate eyebrows arched. “The whiskey in your cabinet and that weight in your gut say differently.”

“Any weight I may have put on has been a result of the harassment I have suffered at the hands of Halford, Renzik, His Majesty, _and_ _you_. I seem to remember all of you telling me I don’t eat enough,” the spymaster mumbled. “I suppose I won’t make a habit of listening to your advice.”

“I’m touched you listened to it at all.”

“I listened to _His Majesty,”_ Shaw grumbled. 

“Did Fairwind tell you you don’t eat enough?”

_“What?”_

“Did he tell you that at the Curious Octopus? Do they even sell octopus there?” Valeera wondered.

“They do not,” Shaw said immediately.

“So you’ve been there?” 

Shaw grimaced as he realized his mistake. _“Please,_ get out of my office.” 

Valeera laughed herself out the door.

* * *

The relief was almost a tangible thing between them as Valeera stepped into the office. Anduin, head bent low and very close to a grumbling Greymane, looked up and his eyes flashed before he was out of his seat, nearly bowling over the worgen, and taking her in his arms. 

“You’re safe!” the little king cried. “You’re back and you’re safe!”

Valeera laughed softly and allowed her own arms to go around him, feeling the weight of Anduin against her. It had been so long since they’d been together. When had he gotten so tall? They last time they had seen each other, they were of the same height, but now she could only rest her forehead on his narrow shoulder, and the arms encircling her were firm with lean, sinewy muscle. 

Not so long ago he was a little boy, looking up at her curiously with wide blue eyes. _Hello, miss! I’m Anduin. What are you doing?_

“I’m back and I’m safe,” Valeera affirmed, hugging back as tightly as she dared. 

“We’ve only heard about Gelbin and Aunt Jaina,” Anduin said frantically, eyes scanning her face as though he didn’t quite believe her. “Shaw ﹣ General Feathermoon ﹣ the High Commander ﹣?”

“All fine.”

“Very little news has made it back to us as of yet,” grumbled Greymane from over Anduin’s shoulder. His dislike of her outweighed his thirst for information, and Valeera could almost see the older king at war with himself, deciding whether her word was trustworthy. 

“Sit, come sit down.” And Valeera allowed Anduin to lead her to his squashy couch, watching the way he limped out of the corner of her eye. It was more pronounced today, and her brain parsed through a myriad of reasons before realizing he was speaking again. “Please, Val, make yourself comfortable. What’s happened?”

He called for a servant to fetch tea and sandwiches and lowered himself with some difficulty to the cushion beside her. Valeera looked around the room for his cane, but it wasn’t there. Was that Greymane’s doing ﹣ he believed reliance on a cane to be a weakness ﹣ or was it Anduin’s own stubbornness?

“Well.” Valeera took a deep breath. “The Zandalari king is dead.”

  
  
  


“I prayed for you.”

She couldn’t help the little smile that pulled at her lips as her heart swelled. “You pray for everyone.”

“Yes.” Anduin pushed his empty plate away. “But I pray hardest for you.” He reached across the table and took her slender hand in his own large, soft one. There were calluses on his palm that hadn’t been there before. “Val… If you’d died, I don’t know what I would have done.”

Valeera had been here before, with another Wrynn, a long time ago. 

_“Don’t be stupid, Varian,”_ she’d scoffed. _“You know I can’t die.”_

 _“Anyone can die,”_ he’d said solemnly. _“I don’t know what I’d do without you.”_

Light, she’d been so stupid. 

Anduin sat before her now, and her skin tingled where it met his. His open, friendly face was full of concern and relief and love and Valeera found herself slipping back to that time, so long ago.

“Don’t be silly, Anduin,” she heard herself saying. “You know I can’t die.” 

There was no melancholic stare, no flash of panic in eyes so blue they made the afternoon sky look grey. A grin broke out over Anduin’s face and he gave her hand a squeeze before releasing it. “Of course not,” he agreed. “You’ll outlive us all.”

And Valeera knew he hadn’t meant it like that. She _knew_ he hadn’t. But her heart clenched painfully all the same because… she would. Anduin, Shaw, even cantankerous old Greymane ﹣ their lives were hardly a fraction of hers, and one day they would die and leave her behind. It had been devastating to lose Varian, to live with the knowledge that even if he hadn’t been killed, she would have lost him eventually. He would always have died long before her. 

_Please,_ Varian had written, _help Anduin to die peacefully in his bed of old age._

Valeera didn’t want Anduin to die at all. 

Abruptly she leaned forward and drew him to her, tucking his head under her chin as she had when he was small and petting through his soft blonde hair. “I love you,” she murmured, feeling all at once wobbly and warm and strong in her conviction but at the same time as if a light breeze would topple her over and Anduin with her. She’d never said those words before. Not to her father or to the graves of her mother and brothers. She’d never said it to Varian, who she realized with each passing day she’d always loved, from that first night in the Ring when she’d climbed into his bed to help him sleep. She’d never told Varian she loved him ﹣ she would not make the same mistake with Anduin. 

And Anduin ﹣ sweet, gentle, so very confused Anduin ﹣ hugged her back, his arms loose around her waist. “Val,” he murmured, voice reverberating against her chest, “is everything alright? Are you okay?”

She smoothed the golden strands from his face and pressed her lips chastely to the top of his head. “Everything’s fine,” she soothed. “I just wanted to tell you that I love you.”

“I love you too.” He let her hold him and did not ask questions, did not pry into her sudden show of affection. That was the thing about Anduin ﹣ he never pushed. He never demanded answers. He always let her come to him on her own time, in her own way. Accepted what he was given without protest. Anduin loved her, unconditionally and irrevocably, softly and always. 

“Valeera!” And now his voice betrayed alarm. “Val, what’s wrong? Why are you crying?”

Was she crying? 

Oh. 

Her chest heaved as she held the little king, burying her face in his hair. She shook her head but fooled no one, and Anduin carefully extricated himself from her hold without breaking the touch. He placed a hand on her cheek, which began to tingle, and thumbed away the tears.

“What can I do?” His voice was soft, but there was an urgent tone to it. Concern. He had never seen her cry before, not even at his father’s death ﹣ not like this ﹣ and his gentle heart couldn’t bear it. 

Valeera shook her head. There wasn’t anything he _could_ do. Anduin couldn’t take back the words she’d never said to his father and he couldn’t bring Varian back to hear them. He couldn’t remove himself from Stormwind, secret himself someplace safe and far away from those who wished him harm. He couldn’t stop the halberd from stabbing Shaw, the stitches and scars running along the spymaster’s back like a map. And he couldn’t tell her if Umbric was safe, if he’d survived Dazar’alor and﹣

Wait. 

What. 

Umbric?

She shook her head again. This wasn’t about stupid Umbric. Umbric had traipsed out of her tent like she hadn’t mattered, as though _none_ of the past year had mattered. As if he hadn’t crawled in seeking the solace of her company only hours before, as if they hadn’t spent countless nights curled together in the dark, whispering caresses across her skin and finding comfort from the endless plague of nightmares. 

As if he’d never run his hands through her hair, or pressed kisses to her skin when he thought she was asleep. As if she’d never done the same. 

This wasn’t about Umbric. 

Something had broken in Valeera when Varian died, and it wasn’t until then, alone and facing threat after threat against the people she loved… 

And she did love them. Shaw with his ridiculous mustache and oversized pauldrons, the way he steadfastly refused to admit that he was a human being with feelings and fears and dreams; and sweet, kind Anduin, who should have died in Pandaria and by sheer strength of will alone was sitting beside her today, who had suffered more tragedy in his short life than he ever deserved and still looked at the world with compassion and hope. 

And Umbric, who she’d refused to let in. Who she’d convinced herself was just _stress relief,_ was just an attractive man in her bed the way Broll and Bloodeye had been. Who she’d refused to consider as _more than_ because he wasn’t Varian. 

Umbric wasn’t Varian, and that was okay. 

She had convinced herself, in the past two years, that only Varian would ever have her heart. She’d done exactly what her king had after the death of his wife, the very thing he’d denounced as stupid in his last letter to her. Despite her best efforts, even _Shaw_ had gotten to her, and Anduin had never left. And Umbric…

Umbric didn’t mean she’d never loved Varian. It didn’t lessen the relationship they’d had, the one forged in blood, sweat, and tears so long ago. Men like Shaw and Anduin and Broll had helped her, little by little, heal from Varian's death. Had helped her understand that letting someone else in didn’t mean she was pushing Varian out. She’d been running on autopilot for two years, feeling absolutely nothing until icy blue eyes met green, and was so convinced she’d never feel again that she hadn’t realized…

Fuck. She loved Umbric. 

“Anduin.” Her voice wobbled and she hated it but she had to say it. Had to make him understand. “If you _ever_ find someone you love, act on it. Don’t fuck it up like I did.”

“Okay…” Confusion colored his tone.

“I have to go back to Boralus.” The words tumbled out of her mouth faster than she could think them, tripping over themselves on her tongue. “I can’t stay here. I have to go back. I’m sorry.”

Anduin’s expression softened. “So go.”

Valeera stared at him, suddenly wanting to take it all back, not wanting to put him in the position of sacrificing his safety for her happiness.

“Go,” he repeated. “I’ll be fine.”

“Are you su﹣”

_“Go.”_

* * *

Shaw raised his eyebrows when she strode into his office. For him, that was as surprised as he got. “His Majesty approved my request?”

Right. Shaw had wanted her to come back so he could send her to Dazar’alor. 

“Something like that.”

“There’s a ship going out in three days’ time. I’m sure His Majesty would appreciate a swift report on the chaos within the city and the status of the new Zandalari queen.” Once, wording his request as coming from _His Majesty_ had been the only way to work with her.

“Any news?”

In the past, Shaw had done his best to share with Valeera as little information as possible. Her loyalty to Varian over Stormwind, her refusal to pledge herself to the Alliance, and her biannual trips to the Sunwell in Quel’Thalas with no obvious intentions or gathering of intelligence ﹣ these were things Shaw had held over her head for years. Had used as proof that she was not to be trusted. 

When had that changed, she wondered, as he handed her a short report written in his own neat hand. When had he begun doing just that? Not when Greymane had arrived, calling her into question. The worgen’s dislike of her had not brought the two men together as she had feared, but neither had it endeared Valeera to Shaw in any way that would justify the moment she found herself in now. 

Years of calming Varian’s legendary temper, of selfless love and concern towards Anduin, of openly taking Shaw’s side when he was right and challenging him when he wasn’t, and of demonstrating again and again that she would lay her life down for the Wrynns… had that done it? Had working day and night on a cipher she barely understood and uncovering the dreadlord Detheroc, aiding in the rescue of Shaw from Felsoul Hold… had that been it? Had it been the naked worry after his return, not because he would continue to subvert her at every opportunity but because he _meant_ something to her, as a person? 

The Shaw she had met upon her reclamation of Stormwind with Lo’Gosh would never have allowed himself to show weakness before her. Would have hidden his wound from her in the shadows of Dazar’alor, and would have rather died than allowed her to use poison as an anesthetic and stitch him back together. 

When had he begun to trust her? Perhaps it had snuck up on him, as hers had in him. 

Valeera skimmed the report. Their base in Nazmir had been destroyed in the decoy attack, and its commander Joseph Redfield killed. Shaw had, as was his tendency, drawn up a list of bases and footholds, noted with the name of their commanders and the amount of people stationed there. Some had large thick X’s slashed through them, while others boasted number tallies of the deceased. Vol’dun had been relatively untouched, Nazmir bearing the brunt of the of the assault. 

_Xibala_ was at the bottom, along with _Umbric,_ the number 12, and _-3._

“You’ll have to find your own way in for now, but I don’t think that will be terribly difficult, with all the disarray.”

_I’ll have to… what?_

“Where’s Umbric?” She was proud in that moment of the steadiness of her voice. 

“Recovery,” Shaw answered, cracking the seal on an SI:7 missive. “He and several others were caught in the wave summoned by Lady Proudmoore. It knocked them unconscious. Three drowned.” 

_Recovery._ Umbric was alive. 

  
  
  


Recovery turned out to be a large building owned by the tidesages, close to the harbor. It was normally used for treating the hazards that came with sailors and shipping, and many of the tidesages were trained specially in azerite burns. It was chaos, with every bed taken and cots tucked into every available space. There were still some sailors, Valeera saw, but nearly every occupied bed housed a battlemage, engineer, tinkerer, or soldier. Priests and paladins ran to and fro to supplement the tidesages, and Valeera passed more than one cot whose occupant had been covered with a tidespray linen sheet, passed on and with no one to carry them away. She tried not to linger. 

She found him on the second floor, a privacy curtain awarded for his station drawn partially around the bed. His arm was bandaged and lay outside his sheets, but he appeared otherwise unharmed, if a little haggard. His short hair was in tangles and there was dirt under his nails. It pained her ﹣ he had always been fastidious with his appearance, still the haughty rich boy he’d once been in Silvermoon. 

He was frowning in his sleep ﹣ and Valeera knew he _was_ sleeping, could see the gentle rise and fall of his chest and hear the slight rattle when he breathed ﹣ and she slipped silently between the folds of the privacy curtain, drawing them closed. 

What would he say when he woke and saw her? What would she say? Would he even want to see her? In her mind’s eye she saw him as he’d been a few days ago, his reluctance as he’d rolled away, his back to her as he’d dressed. The sun had only begun to peek out from the edge of the horizon and he was backlit in a not unpleasant combination of starlight and the pinks and oranges of the coming dawn. The disappointment on his face when she wouldn’t go with him, because she’d been waiting for Shaw. The droop of his shoulders as he’d left. 

Valeera didn’t think he’d been upset about _Shaw,_ specifically. Umbric didn’t like Shaw, but she didn’t think that he’d been upset about the man. She thought ﹣ she hoped ﹣ that Umbric had been angry because in that moment, she had chosen Shaw, had chosen _the Alliance,_ over him, and because he… cared about her.

 _“Fuck this,”_ he’d mumbled into her shoulder, tightening his grip around her middle. _“Fuck Dazar’alor and the Alliance. Let it all burn.”_

This was probably why Shaw kept the stick up his ass.

Umbric wheezed in his sleep, and then coughed once. Twice. He hacked for several moments before his eyes shot open, leaking tears, and his unbandaged arm raised a few inches under the sheet as though he were trying to bang on his own chest. It didn’t make it, and the lump settled after a moment, though the magister continued to cough weakly. 

Valeera stood frozen ﹣ should she fetch a healer? Should she help him sit up, to clear the fluid in his chest? Should she do anything, or was there even anything _to_ do? She’d never been around anyone who’d drowned before. 

It hurt, watching him there gasp for breath. He looked so frail, and the Umbric she had known in Zuldazar was anything but. 

It reminded her uncomfortably of Anduin, crushed beneath the rubble of the Divine Bell. 

But he did stop after a few minutes, the breath returning to him in shaky, wheezy inhales. And when he’d calmed, when he’d taken several gulps of air without descending back into the hack, his watery blue eyes found her, rooted to the spot by the curtain flap. 

The lines of his face softened, and his entire body seemed to relax. He turned his head into the pillow, the better to see her, and in a thin, reedy voice whispered one clear word:

“Hi.”

Valeera felt all the air go out of her, the thunderous beating of her heart quiet. Umbric didn’t look angry at her, didn’t look angry at all. She laughed, a shaky hiccup of a noise, and all her joints unlocked as she was pulled by his stare alone to his bedside. 

“Hi.”

  
  
  


Valeera boarded the ship to Zuldazar three days later. She wasn’t much use in recovery, being neither a healer nor very good with sickness in general, and Umbric had very stubbornly insisted he hadn’t wanted her there. She suspected it was more his own hurt pride at her seeing him bedridden than anything she’d especially done. 

She returned to her double life as a Silvermoon alchemist and kept tabs on Dazar’alor, sending her reports through Xibala and Voidsmith Aowyn, who’d been reassigned to the camp after the destruction of Redfield’s Watch. Aowyn was a trustworthy and high ranking member of the ren’dorei but Valeera could not find it in herself to like the girl. She was brusque and cold and had none of Umbric’s grace, and tracking her down often meant looking not in Xibala but in the Dark Iron camp a mile away, where Aowyn smelted the monelite for their equipment. 

Umbric did not return for six long weeks. Some of his unit had escaped the drowning unscathed but he’d contracted pneumonia and even the tidesages had agreed it just had to run its course. The camp felt smaller, somehow, without him. 

Valeera snuck into camp at the crack of dawn. The ren’dorei of Xibala had grown used to seeing the red and gold of Silvermoon, the alchemist she pretended to be, and did not stop her. She hoped to catch Aowyn before the smith headed down to the beaches; the Blightcaller was planning something devious and had ordered a skeleton-crewed ship to cast off last night for seemingly the middle of nowhere. Shaw must be told. 

She heard him before she saw him. The rich dulcet tones of an elf who thought himself better than the operation to which he’d been assigned, marred by the occasional hacking cough. When she arrived, Umbric’s tent had been set up and he and Aowyn sat at the familiar low table inside. 

Umbric looked up as she pulled back the tent flap, his face unreadable, and Aowyn glanced over her shoulder. Breakfast ﹣ spiced snapper and fresh wild berry bread ﹣ sat between them, mostly untouched, though Aowyn quickly wiped her hands on a napkin at her entrance. 

“Voidsmith,” Umbric said easily, “please deliver Ms Sanguinar’s report to Spymaster Shaw. Consider it the final transfer of power between us.” He conjured an extra glass and from a pitcher poured crisp, clear Zandalari mineral water, which he tipped in Valeera’s direction before setting down on his other side. An invitation to sit. 

When Aowyn had left, closing the void portal behind her ﹣ probably to tear a new one straight into the Dark Iron camp ﹣ Valeera helped herself to a slice of bread, smearing over it the thick, creamy goat cheese Umbric insisted upon. Umbric mirrored her; she’d often remarked on his tendency to pick at his food or forgo meals entirely, how it wasn't healthy or conductive to a sleep-deprived body. The sweetness of the crushed berries baked into the bread combined with the savory aspect of the goat cheese and the sturdy composition of the bread in a way that Valeera especially enjoyed. She thought she’d eaten more bread and cheese during the Fourth War than she had in her entire life. 

“How are you feeling?” she asked quietly. The rattle in his chest had quieted, resurfacing only faintly before he coughed, which he didn’t do as much of anymore. In Boralus, he hadn’t been able to say a full sentence without hacking, and his every word had been a wheeze.

“Tired,” he admitted, voice steady. “But much, much better.”

She smiled. “You sound it.”

Umbric toyed with the cheese knife before placing it back on the table with a quiet _clink._ “I’ve decided I don’t care for drowning,” he announced. 

The smile became a grin. “You could have been stabbed.”

“You were stabbed?”

“Happens a lot in my line of work.”

He looked at her then, indulgent in a way she’d never seen, which made her vaguely uncomfortable and also very warm. It was unsettling, how a man absorbed of the Void could look so… _soft._

“I missed you.”

The words had come from her, Valeera realized belatedly, and she almost slapped a hand over her own mouth in shock. She wasn’t an emotional woman, wasn’t one for displays of affection or tender words. Neither was Umbric, which was why she nearly jolted out of her own skin when he leaned forward and pressed his lips to her forehead. 

“I missed you too,” he breathed. His breath was warm against her skin and his lips soft, gentle in a way that Umbric normally wasn’t. Valeera reached for him, yanked him close and crashed their mouths together, tasting the lingering sweetness on his tongue as she licked into his mouth. He returned the kiss with equal fervor, stopping only when she pushed him away, when the wheezing in his lungs became too loud and he refused to pull away and catch his own breath. 

“If you die because you’d rather make out than breathe, that’s on you,” she warned. 

Umbric licked his lips and grinned in a manner that sent a shiver up her spine.

“I accept full responsibility.”

And then he kissed her again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was supposed to include a scene at the mak'gora between Saurfang and Sylvanas, but I decided to save that for a separate shortfic. I also willingly admit that my like of the Umbric/Valeera pairing stems from my desire to pair two hot people together for no reason other than they're hot. Somewhere along the way feelings were caught on all sides ﹣ Umbric's, Valeera's, and mine.


End file.
